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ITS     WORK     AND     ITS     PLAY 


ITS     SIGHTS     AND     ITS     SCENES 

EDITED    BY   .   .  . 


VOL.   II— SECTION    ir 


London,    Paris,   New   York   &   Melbourne 
All  Rights  Reserved 

OCT  28  1959 


(From  the  Painting  by  W.  Rainey,  R.I,} 



'From  the  Painting  by  H.  H.  Fllre.) 


(From  the  Painting  by  //.  H.  FUre.) 


LONDON'S    DRAPERS       . 




HOTEL    LONDON      . 



LONDON    THRIFT      .... 


SCOTTISH,       IRISH.       AND       WELSH 
LONDON     . 









BIRD -LAND     AND     PET  -  LAND     IN 
LONDON     .... 













J.  C.  WOOLLAN  . 




C.     O'CONOR    ECCLES. 



GRAHAM    HILL       . 

SHEILA     E.    BRAINE    . 


CHARLES    WELCH.    F.S.A.  . 


P.   F.    WILLIAM    RYAN. 


L.    BRINDLE     . 

A.    ST.  JOHN    ADCOCK 







London's  Drapers  : — 

A  Work  Room 209 

A  Packing  Room 210 

At  Dinner  on  a  Big  Sale  Day 211 

Left  Outside 212 

A  Cash  Desk     .        .                          212 

A  Postal  Order  Room 213 

A  Sale  Day  at  Peter  Robinson's 214 


A  Well-Known  Establishment  in  St.  James's  Street         .  216 

Shown  into  the  Drawing-Room 217 

An  Inspection  by  the  Dog 218 

Let  as  Fast  as  Built 219 

A  Choice  of  Agents 220 

Moving  In 221 

Music- Hall  London: — 

Ready  to  Pass  in  ("  Wonderland  ") 223 

Waiting  to  Go  on  at  a  Music-Hall 223 

Beneath  the  Arena  (Hippodrome) 224 

Types  of  Music- Hall  Performers 225 

Performing  Dogs 226 

At  the  Corner  of  York  Road 227 

Before  the  Doors  Open  (London  Pavilion)       .        ,         .  228 

Hooligan  London  :— 

Attacked  by  Two 229 

Pitch  and  Toss 230 

Hooligan  Weapons 231 

Hooligan  v.  Hooligan .         .  233 

Sandbagging  in  the  Fog 234 

A  Street  Group 235 

Hotel  London  : — 

Manager  Receiving  Guests  (Hotel  Victoria)     .         .        .  236 

Page 236 

Arrival  of  an  Oriental  Potentate  (Claridge's)    .         .         .  237 

Porter 239 

The  Palm  Court  (Carlton  Hotel) 239 

Smoking  Room  (Grand  Hotel) 239 

Chambermaid 239 

Lift  Man    .                          239 

Commercials  "  Writing  up  the  Mail  "  (Manchester  Hotel)  239 

Drawing  Room  (Hotel  Cecil) 240 

Dining  Room  (Oak  Salon,  Hotel  Mdtropole)    .         .         .241 

Lounge  (Hotel  Russell) 242 

Thames  Pleasures  and  Sports  :— 
The  Oxford  and  Cambridge  Boat  Race     .        .        .        -243 

Doggett's  Coat  and  Badge 243 

Excursion    Steamers    Leaving    Fresh    Wharf,    London 

Bridge         .        .                .                ....  244 

Bathing  in  the  River 244 


Thames  Pleasures  and  Sports  (continued)  :— 

Ready  for  a  Row 3*5 

A  "  Penny  Sweat " 245 

At  Practice 247 

■    "  Boats  to  Let  " 247 

River  Steamer 248 

Roman  Catholic  London  : — 

Leaving  the  Oratory,  South  Kensington    ....  249 

Arrival  of  a  Cardinal  at  Sardinia  Street  Chapel         .         .  250 
The  Red  Mass  as  Formerly  Celebrated  at  Sardinia  Street 

Chapel,  Lincoln's  Inn 251 

Unloading  a  Cart  at  Nazareth  House        ....  252 

Old  Women's  Ward,  Nazareth  House     ....  253 

London  Thrift  : — 

The  National  Penny  Bank  (Hackney  Road)     .        .        .  254 

School  Teachers  Receiving  Pupils'  Pennies      .        .         .  255 

Salvation  Army  Reliance  Bank,  Queen  Victoria  Street    .  256 

Birkbeck  Bank 257 

Hearts  of  Oak  Certificate 258 

F'orester's  Certificate 258 

A  Christmas  Eve  Distribution  of  Turkeys,  Geese,  etc. 

(Aldenham  Institute) 259 

Druid's  Certificate .  260 

Post  Office  Savings  Bank  Stamp  F'orm     ....  260 

London  Under  the  Weather  :— 

During  a  Summer  Heat  Wave 261 

On  the  Kerbstone  :  Sun  Hats 261 

High  Holborn  in  a  Storm 262 

By  Torchlight 263 

At  the  Mercy  of  the  Wind 263 

Ludgate  Circus  in  a  Fog 264 

Skating  on  the  Serpentine 263 

Scottish,  Irish,  and  Welsh  London  : — 

Playing  in  the  Haggis  on  St.  Andrew's  Night  .        .        .  267 

London  Kymric  Ladies'  Choir 268 

Learning    Irish     Reels    (Athenaeum    Hall,    Tottenham 

Court  Road) 269 

Irish  Guardsmen •         .        .        .  270 

Shamrock  Seller 270 

A  London  Irish  Hurling  Match 271 

Welsh  Paper  Published  in  London 272 

Highland  Piper  and  Dancer  in  London     ,        .  273 

Lighting  London  : — 

Laying  Electric  Cables 274 

Lamp-Lighter 274 

In  the  London  Electric  Supply  Corporation's  Works        .  275 
Drawing    Retorts   by   Hand    (South    Metropolitan    Gas 

Company) 276 



LiUHTING  LOKDCIN  ( ccnttnuea J  :— 

I^mp  Cleaner 

Haying  out  a  Leaden  Cable 

Supplying  Arc  Lamp  with  Carbon 

Lamp  Repairing  Shop  (South  Metropolitan  Gas  Company) 

Collecting  Pennies  from  a  Slot  Meter       .... 

Taking  in  Coal  at   Vauxhall  (South   Metropolitan  Gas 


Sideshow  London  -.-^ 

Punch  and  Judy 

A  West-Knd  Sideshow      ....         ... 

The  Lion  Jawed  Man  ...... 

A  RiHe,s;e 

A  Tattooed  Couple  at  Tea         ...         ... 

A  Waxwork  Show      .....  ... 

A  Fat  Lady 

P>AR  AND  Saloon  Lonho.-j  : — 

Served  Through  the  Window 

Inside  a  Public-House  on  Saturday  Night 

The  Chandos  Bar  and  Lounge 

A  City  Wine-Bar  (The  Bodega,  Bucklcrsbury) 

A  Strand  Wine-Bar  (Short's) 

At  a  "  Change  "  in  the  East-End 

During  Prohibited  Hours  (Whitechapel)  :  Satisfying  the 

Landlord  ;  Waiting  to  Enter 

Outside  the  "  Bull  and  Bush,"   Hampstead,  on  Sunday 








292  Lxjndon  :— 

A  Christening  at  a  Wcst-End  Church 

A  Nurse  :  New  Styie        .... 

A  Nurse :  Old  Style .        .  .         . 

A  Scottish  Christening  in  London 

A  Batch  of  Christenings  . 

A  Christening  at  the  Italian  Church,  Hatton  Garden 

A  Salvation  Army  "  Dedication  " 

County  Council  London  :— 

At  the  L.C.C.  Licensing  Sessions  (Clerkenwell) ;    E.\- 
amining  a  Witness      ....... 

Four      Days'      Work :       Pages      from      a      Member  s 


L.C.C.  Open  Space  Notice  Board 

Fire  Brigade  Committee  Starting  on  an  Inspection  . 

L  C.C.  Stonemasons  at  Work 

L  C.C.  Wharf 

A  Sitting  of  the  London  County  Council  .         .         .         . 

Thk  London  City  Companies:— 

Dynamo  Class  at  the  City  and  Guilds  Institute  (South 

Outside  a  Cell,  Bridewell  Hospital 

Court  of  the  Cutlers'  Company  :  Examining  the  Work  of 
their  Apprentices        .         . 

An  Examination  at  Apothecaries' Hall       .... 

The  Copyright  Registry,  Stationers'  Hall 

A  Playing  Card  Design  (Playing  Card  M.ikers'  Com- 







London  Gets  Up  in  the  Morning: — 
Mary  Jane  Descends. 
The  Children  Awake 
A  Late  Riser    . 
Welcome  News 
Reading  the  Press  Notices 
The  Bride  of  the  Day 
In  the  Condemned  Cell 

London's  Street  Industries  : — 

Net  Making  ;  "  Sweep  !  "  ;  Crumpets  ;  Sweetstuff 
Making ;  Flags  and  Windmills  ;  Salt ;  Bread 
Shrimps  ;  Window-Cleaning  ;  Watercress ;  Fish 
Old  Hats;  Milk;  "Scissors  to  Grind";  Kettle 
Holder  Making;  Saw  Sharpening  ;  Chair  Mending 
Coals ;  Fly  Papers ;  Woolwork  Picture  Making 
Shoeblack;  Old  Iron;  Step-Cleaning;  Green 
grocer ;  Brushes ;  Clock-Mer.der ;  Old  Sacks 
Yule  Logs  ;  Licensed  Messenger 

317,  318.  319,  320,  321,  32 

Bird  Land  and  Pet-Land  in  London  :- 

A  Pet  Python 

Feeding  Pigeons  Outside  the  Guildhall     . 

Gulls  near  the  Thames  Embankment 

Feeding  Pigeons  in  Hyde  Park 

Feeding  Sparrows  from  his  Hand  (Hyde  Park) 

Feeding  the  Ducks  in  St.  James's  Park 

A  Bird  Shop  on  Wheels    .... 

In     a      Bird     and     Animal      Shop      (Great 



Feeding  Pet  Lemurs          .... 
A  Street  Bird  Stall 


Scenes  from  Factory  London  : — 
Matchbox  Filling       .... 
Cream  Fondant  Moulding  Room 
A  Cigar  Manufacturing  Department 
Marking  Soap  for  Hotels,  Clubs,  etc. 
The  Potter  at  Work  .... 
Wrapping  Infants'  Food    . 
Printing  "  Living  London  " 

Lunatic  London: — 

The  Bethlem  Magazine  .  .  .  . 
A  Christmas  Entertainment  at  St.  Luke's 
Padded  Room  in  a  London  Workhouse     . 

Cricket  (Bethlem i 

Gardening  (St.  Luke's)  .... 
Needlework  (Bethlem)       .         .         .         . 

A  CouNT.RY  Cousin's  Day  in  Town  : — 

Preparing  Models  (Madame  Tussaud's)    .         .        ,        . 

The  Artists'  Room,  Pagani's 

The  Coliseum  :  From  the  Stage        .        .         .         .         . 
In     the     Brasserie,      Hotel      de      I'Europe,      Leicester 


After  a  Matinee         ...  .         .         .         . 

The  Empire  Promen;ide 

"  Good- Bye " ^    . 




33 1 






Servant  London  :— 

In  a  Registry  Office  :  Servants  Seeking  Situations   .        .  351 

Maid-ofall-Worlc ijt 

Housemaid         .........  351 

Outside  a  Registry  Office  :  Reading  the  Notices             .  352 

<^'"b  Page .         •  352 

Club  Waiter 352 

In  a  Servants'  Hall  :  At  Dinner 353 

Coachman 354 

Gfoom 354 

Footman ....  354 

Servants'  Fire  Brigade  at  the  Hotel  Cecil         .         .         .  355 

Serva.its'  Recreation  Room  at  the  Army  and  Navy  Club  356 

Lady's  Maid  Learning  Hair  Dressing       ....  356 
Smoking  Concert  at  a  Servants'  Club  (St.  Paul's,  Knights- 

bridge) 357 

London's  Little  Worries  :— 

The  Pestering  Acquaintance 358 

"  Lost  Ball " 350 

"  I  will  Call  for  an  Answer  " 360 

"1 11  Shoot  that  Cat!" -360 

Behind  the  Smokers 361 

"  My  Purse  is  Gone ! "       .         .         .                 ...  362 

A  Whining  Appeal  . 363 

London's  Wash-Houses  and  Baths  : — 

In  a  Public  Wash-House  (Marylebone  Road) :  Washing  364 
Men's  Private  Baths  (Hornsey  Road  Baths  and  Wash- 
Houses)       .        .                 365 

London's  Wash-Houses  and  Baths  (coniinued) 

In  a  Public  Wash-House  (Marshall  Street,  W.) :  Fold 

ing  and  Mangling 

Turkish  Bath  (Jermyn  Street) :  Shampooing  Room 
Water  Polo  Match  (Westminster  Baths) 
Teaching  Schoolboys  to  Swim  (Kensington  Baths) 
Turkish  Bath  (Jermyn  Street) :  Cooling  Room 
Ladies  Using  the  Chute  (Bath  Club) 

Scenes  from  Official  Life  in  London  : — 

Awaiting  the  Arrival  of  Ministers  to  Attend  a  Cabinet 

A  Reception  at  the  Foreign  Office 

A  Council  at  Buckingham  Palace 

A  Deputation  to  the  Colonial  Secretary    .... 

After  a  Naval  Disaster  :  Enquiries  at  the  Admiralty 

Presentation  of  War  Medals  on  the  Horse  Guards 
Parade  :  Arrival  of  the  King      ..,.'. 

Saturday  Night  in  London  : — 

Saturday  Night  in  King  Street,  Hammersmith  . 


Boots  and  Shoes  :  Trying  on 

Saturday  Night  in  Whitechapel  Road       .... 
Inside  a  Big  Provision  Stores  (Hammersmith)  . 


Outside  a  Public-House 

Selling  Meat  by  Auction 






Tlie  IllvstratiojLs  are  from  Drawings  by  J.  H.  Baco.v,  Gordon  Browne,  R.I.,  R.B.A.,  James  Durden,  J.  S.  Eland, 
C.  H.  Finnemore,  H.  H.  Flere,  Clement  Flower,  A.  H.  Fullwood,  Professor  Maurice  Grun,  A.  P.  Garratt, 
W.  H.  HuMPHRis,  E.  Lander,  W.  H.  Margetson,  F.  Pegram,  H.  Piffard,  Victor  Prout,  W.  Rainey,  R.L, 
Edward  Read,  A.  Monro  Smith,  Isaac  Snowman,  Allen  Stewart,  W.  R.  S.  Stott,  L.  Campbell  Taylor, 
H.  E.  Tidmarsh,  F.  H.  Townsend,  C.  D.  Ward,  Enoch  Ward,  R.B.A.  ;  and  from  Photographs,  nearly  alt 
of  which  were  specially  taken  for  this  work,  by  Messrs.  Cassell  and  Company,  Limited. 


The  General  Post  Office Frontispiece 

The  Hotel  Cecil To  face  p.  238 

The  Roman  Catholic  Cathedral,  Westminster  ...  „  249 

The  India  Office „  376 





LONDON  has  long  been,  in  the  business 
sense  of  the  word,  the  market  of  the 
world  ;  but  only  comparatively  lately 
have  been  established,  especially  in  the  West- 
End,  the  well-known  emporiums  which  now 
cater  successfully  not  only  for  Londoners, 
but  for  those  American  and  Continental 
visitors  who  formerly  took  the  whole  of  their 
dress  custom  to  Paris. 

A  volume  might  well  be  written  concerning 
life  at  the  draper's  ;  the  more  so,  that  not 
content  with  what  was  originally  their 
mainstay — namely,  drapery,  millinery,  dress- 
making, and  underclothing  departments — 
many  now  join  to  these  separate  sections,  where 
every  household  want  is  satisfied,  from  the 
morning  tea  and  milk  to  the  costly  fruit  and 
liqueurs  required  for  a  Lucullian  banquet. 

The  time  may  come  when  no  drapery 
business  will  be  able  to  live  without  these 
adjuncts  ;  but  there  are  still  many  prosperous 
establishments  which,  like  their  French  rivals, 
deal  almost  entirely  with  the  art  of  dress. 
Let  us  content  ourselves  with,  as  it  were, 

taking  off  the  roof  of  one  of  the  half-dozen 
busy  London  hives  which  cater  almost 
exclusively  for  the  lady  customer.  It  may 
be  doubted  whether  this  can  be  done  more 
effectively  than  in  tracing  the  various  incidents 
connected  with  the  brief  existence  of  one  of  the 
many  pretty  items,  say  a  hat  or  toque,  dear  to 
the  feminine  heart,  from  the  day  when  it 
takes  its  place  in  the  stockroom  of  a  big 
West-End  establishment  to  the  moment 
when  it  is  finally  handed  in  at  its  purchaser's 
door  by  one  of  the  army  of  ^;;///i?y/j  belonging 
to  the  distribution  service  of  the  emporium 
in  question. 

Paris  is  still  supposed  to  hold  the  sceptre 
where  feminine  dress  is  concerned  :  accord- 
ingly, the  managers  of  each  great  London 
drapery  business  have  to  make  a  point  of 
being  in  constant  communication  with  the 
gay  city,  and  their  buj'ers — many  of  whom 
are  paid  salaries  averaging  from  six  to  twenty 
guineas  a  week — are  always  on  the  look-out 
for  new  ideas,  and  huge  prices  are  paid 
without  a  murmur  for  really  original  model 




gowns,  model  hats,  and  even  model  under- 

"What,"  the  reader  will  ask,  "has  this 
to  do  with  the  progress  of  any  special  article 
from  the  workroom  to  the  customer's  hat- 
box  ? "  Everything  ;  for  the  hat  or  toque 
in  question  owes  its  very  existence  to  the 
care  exercised  by  the  buyer,  whose  business 
it  is  to  keep  himself  in  touch  with  the 
great  Paris  millinery  houses  ;  and  the  piece 
of  headgear  under  discussion  is  almost  certain 
to  be  a  clever  modification  of  a  Paris  model, 
so  arranged  by  the  important  lady  whose 
business  it  is  to  superintend  the  millinery 
department.  It  is  she  who  decides  of 
what  materials  the  hat  or  toque  is  to  be 
made,  and  what  price  is  to  be  asked  for  it. 

At  the  London  draper's  each  day,  properly 
speaking,  begins  at  8.30,  but  as  early  as  7 
o'clock  the  young  men  assistants,  known 
to  the  trade  as  "  squadders,"  have  started 
work,  cleaning,  dusting,  and  finally  un- 
packing the  goods  which  are  to  be  shown 
and  offered  for  .sale  that  day.  The  young 
ladies,  who,  in  some  great  establishments 
I  could  name,  number  as  many  as  250,  have 
nothing  to  do  with  what  may  be  called 
"squadder"  work,  although  they  dress  the 
windows  of  their  departments  ;  and,  of  course, 
the  more  delicate  goods — and  this  especially 
applies  to  millinery — are  taken  out  of  boxes 

and  from  the 
tissue  paper  in 
which  the}'  were 
carefully  wrapped 
up  the  night  be- 
fore, to  display 
them  to  the  best 
advantage.  It 
may  be  assumed 
that  particular 
care  is  bestowed 
on  those  windows 
where  the  newest 
millinery  is  dis- 
pla)-ed,  as  so 
much  depends, 
when  headgear  is 
concerned,  on  a 
first  impression. 
In  most  good 
houses  every 
article  for  sale  is 
marked  in  plain  figures,  and  there  is  a 
"  marking-off  room,"  where  everything  is 
priced  ;  but  this  only  applies  to  goods  that 
are  not  made  by  the  firm.  Before  a  hat  or 
toque,  for  instance,  has  left  the  workrooms 
it  is  marked  by  the  head  of  the  department, 
for  she  alone  can  know  what  it  has  cost  and 
what  the  profit  should  be.  It  may  interest 
some  of  those  ladies  who  spend  much  of 
their  time  "  at  the  draper's "  to  learn  that 
the  best  and  newest  goods,  especially  those 
copied  from  the  more  recent  Paris  models, 
are  always  at  once  put  in  the  window.  It 
is  there  that  they  are  first  seen  by  the 

The  best-looking  young  lady  assistants 
are  generally  to  be  found  in  the  millinery 
department ;  for  human  nature  being  what 
it  is,  many  a  middle-aged  plain  customer  will 
the  more  willingly  invest  in  a  hat  when  she  has 
seen  it  gracefully  poised  above  the  pretty 
face  of  the  young  lady  who  has  been  told 
off  to  attend  to  her  wants.  Once  the  piece 
of  headgear  has  been  chosen,  the  delicate 
matter  of  payment  comes.  If  the  customer 
has  an  account,  and  is  known  to  the  as- 
sistant, the  amount  of  her  purchase  is 
simply  debited  to  her  ;  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  is  a  casual  purchaser,  she  is,  of  course, 
asked  to  pay  ready  cash,  but  it  is  also  open 
to  her  to  pay  on  delivery. 



The  question  of  payment  satisfactorily 
settled,  the  hat  or  toque  is  packed  by  the 
vendor,  and  sent  down  to  the  despatch-room, 
where — and  this  is  rather  a  curious  fact — 
the  parcel  is  opened,  to  see  if  everything  is 
all  right,  by  one  of  the  many  porters  and 
packers  whose  duty  it  is  to  finally  do  up  the 
hat-box  and  place  it  in  the  delivery  cart. 

Few  ladies  seem  to  care  to  begin  their 
shopping  before  1 1  o'clock,  but  by  midday 
business  is  in  full  swing,  and  the  outside 
porters  are  busily  minding  the  pet  dogs  which, 
by  a  wise  rule,  are  not  allowed  to  accompany 
their  mistresses  through  the  great  glass  doors 
which  admit  them  to  the  modern  woman's 
El  Dorado. 

The  busiest  times  of  the  day  are  from  1 2  to 
I  o'clock  and  from  3  to  5  o'clock  ;  but  time 
has  to  be  found  for  dinner,  and  the  shop  as- 
sistants in  most  great  emporiums  take  their 
meals  in  five  parties — half  an  hour  being 
allowed  for  dinner  and  twenty  minutes  for 
tea.  The  mid-day  meal  consists  of  an  ample 
supply  of  well-cooked  food — hot  in  winter 
and  generally  cold  in  summer,  everything 
being  done  to  vary  the  diet  and  to  make  it 

Time  was  when  much  of  the  drapery 
business  consisted  of  unmade-up  goods. 
Ladies  preferred  to  buy  their  materials,  and 
have   them   made  up  either  at    home   or  by 

their  own  dressmakers.  Now,  however,  the  and  most  profitable  side  of  the 
drapery  business  is  the  sale  of  made-up 
goods.  Customers  will  .sometimes  arrive  in 
the  middle  of  the  morning  and  ask  to  be 
shown  a  gown  that  they  can  wear  the  same 
evening !  Accordingly,  an  important  side 
of  the  business  is  that  of  altering  bodices  and 
skirts  to  fit  the  buyer's  figure ;  and  the 
workroom,  though  never  seen  by  the  public,  is 
a  very  busy  department  of  a  modern  drapery 

The  half-yearly  sales,  which  play  so  promi- 
nent a  part  in  the  lives  of  those  connected  with 
great  drapery  businesses,  and  also,  it  may  be 
added,  in  that  of  some  of  their  customers, 
who  are  always  looking  forward  to  "  sale 
time,"  take  place  soon  after  Christmas  and 
about  Midsummer.  During  the  days  of 
the  sale  everything  in  a  really  good  shop 
is,  as  a  rule,  "  marked  down,"  especially  every- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a  made-up  garment,  for 
these  must  be  cleared  off  at  an  "  alarming 
sacrifice  "  if  need  be  ;  and  amazing  bargains 
may  be  secured  in  the  millinery  departments, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  a  winter  or  sum- 
mer piece  of  headgear,  if  it  be  put  away  for 




twelve  months,  always  acquires  a  worn 

The  preparation  for  a  season's  sale  goes 
on  for  many  days  previous  to  the  date 
advertised,  for,  as  we  have  said,  in  respectable 
establishments  all  the  articles  offered  during 
the  days  of  a  sale  are  "  marked  down  " — that 
is,  their  price  is  lowered — and  this  means  an 
extraordinary  amount  of  careful  work  and 
thought  for  all  those  concerned.  On  the  days 
of  a  sale,  especially  when  some  attractive  "line" 
is  offered  at  what  seems  to  the  average 
shrewd  customer  an  exceptionally  low  price, 
it  is  quite  usual  for  a  large  crowd  of  ladies, 
each  and  all  eager  for  the  fray,  to  gather  out- 
side the  large  plate-glass  doors  some  half  an 
hour  before  they  are  actually  opened  ;  and  the 
scene,  when  the  magic  hour  of  nine  is  struck, 
recalls  nothing  so  much — if  one  may  credit 
the  remark  made  by  a  certain  stalwart  soldier 
who  had  been  through  more  than  one  cam- 
paign— as  that  of  a  town  being  taken  by  as- 
sault !  Once  the  establishment  is  full  the  doors 
are  again  shut,  and  impatient  customers  are 
often  kept  waiting  half  an  hour  before  they 
also  are  allowed  to  join  the  eager  throng. 

The  more  popular  "  lines,"  especially  cheap 
footgear — .shoes,  for  instance,  at  a  shilling  a 
pair — and  very  cheap  gloves,  are  cleared  out 

in  the  first  hour.  But  there  still  remains 
plenty  to  satisfy  the  bargain  hunter,  the  more 
so  that,  as  the  day  goes  on,  fresh  supplies  are 
brought  out ;  and  the  woman  who  is  aware 
of  such  simple  facts  as  that  light  silks  cannot 
be  stored  for  any  length  of  time  without 
becoming  spotted,  or  that  a  ver)-  showy 
Paris  model  will  generally  be  "marked  down  " 
to  a  third  of  its  value,  can  often  pick  up,  at 
any  period  of  a  genuine  sale,  articles  for 
which  she  would  have  to  pay  at  least  fifty  per 
cent,  more  under  ordinary  circumstances. 

During  the  sales  weeks  of  the  year  the 
assistants  have  scarcely  time  to  breathe,  and 
the  pleasant  room  which  the  managers  of 
most  leading  emporiums  provide  as  a  resting- 
place  for  their  "  young  ladies  "  is  practically 
deserted,  the  latter  finding  it  as  much  as  they 
can  do  to  get  their  meals  within  an  hour  of 
the  proper  time. 

Strangely  enough,  the  employes  of  a  drapery 
emporium  rather  like  sale  times,  and  it  may 
be  hinted  that  those  shop  assistants  with 
any  sense  of  humour  thoroughly  enjoy  the 
experience,  for  all  that  is  eccentric  and 
peculiar  in  London  femininity  is  there  seen 
to  most  advantage.  Again,  the  lady  customer 
attending  a  sale  is  generally  far  less  hard  to 

A   CASH    DESK. 



please  than  she  is  on  ordinary  days  ;  the 
delightful  thought  that  she  is  acquiring  a 
series  of  bargains — even  if  the  articles  pur- 
chased by  her  will  never  be  of  the  slightest 
use  to  either  herself  or  her  family — filling  her 
with  unwonted  self-satisfaction.  Many  more 
sensible  people,  however,  wait  patiently  for 
sale  time  and  deliberately  buy  with  a  view 
to  what  is  to  fill  their  wardrobe  the  following 
year;  yet  it  is,  from  the  manager's  point  of 

secure  their  bargains  at  once.  One  type  of 
customer  whom  the  experienced  saleswoman 
can  detect  almost  at  a  glance  is  she  who 
orders  a  great  number  of  things  to  be  paid 
for  "  on  delivery,"  and  who  then  instructs  her 
parlourmaid  or  butler  to  refuse  the  parcels 
when  they  arrive  the  same  evening  or  the 
next  morning. 

The   shop-walker,   that    elegantly   dressed 
individual  who  seems  to  the  casual  observei 


view,  surprising  to  note  how  often  a  customer 
who  has  a  chance  of  securing  a  real  bargain 
in  silk  or  fur  will  pass  it  by,  and  perhaps 
spend  just  as  many  pounds  in  purchasing 
cheap  articles  of  wearing  apparel — gloves, 
veils,  and  last,  not  least,  blouses — which  have 
only  been  "  marked  down  "  a  few  pence,  or, 
in  the  case  of  a  blouse,  a  couple  of  shillings. 

Although  a  considerable  strain  is  put  on 
the  parcels  department,  generally  situated, 
by  the  way,  under  the  showrooms,  it  is 
remarkable  how  many  ladies,  when  attending 
a  sale,  are  content  to  take  away  their  pur- 
chases, even  if  the  latter  be  great  in 
bulk.     They  seem  to  think  that  they  must 

to  have  so  little  to  do,  and  yet  who  is  con- 
sidered so  important  a  member  of  his 
staff  by  the  managers  of  each  emporium, 
finds  his  duties  greatly  lessened  on  the 
days  of  a  sale.  It  is  at  ordinary  times, 
when  business  is  more  or  less  slack, 
that  the  shop-walker  who  knows  his  business 
shows  to  advantage.  It  is  he  who  then 
indicates  to  the  hesitating  customer  where 
she  may  hope  to  find  exactly  what  she  is 
seeking,  or,  better  still,  where  she  may  be 
persuaded  to  purchase  some  article  of  which 
she  is  not  in  any  sense  in  want. 

It  has   often   been    asserted   that  women 
cannot  be  taught  the   business   side  of  life. 



The  best  answer  to  this  charge  is  that  in 
the  great  drapery  establishments  the  cash 
desk  is  almost  always  occupied  by  a  girl 
clerk,  who  does  her  work  well  and  civilly. 

An  important  and  profitable  branch  of 
the  work  performed  each  day  concerns  what 
may  be  called  the  shopping  by  post  depart- 
ment. This  is  carried  on  in  the  Postal  Order 
Room.  Many  country  cousins  have  an 
account  at  a  London  shop,  and  all  such 
important  customers  must  be  answered  by 
return,  and  their  wants,  if  it  be  in  any  way 
humanly  possible,  supplied. 

On  one  side  of  life  at  the  draper's  it 
is  not  quite  easy  to  touch,  yet  it  plays  a 
part  of  no  small  importance.  Now  and 
again,  under  "  Police  News,"  appears  a  para- 
graph stating  that  "  Mrs.  or  Miss  So-and-so, 
of  such-and-such  an  address,  was  charged 
with  stealing   various    articles,  valued    at    so 

much,  from   Messrs. ,   Ltd."     Of  course, 

the  world  at  large  never  hears  of  the  in- 
numerable cases  when  ladies,  detected  in 
appropriating  more  or  less  valuable  articles 
from  the  counters  and  stands,  are  not  taken  in 
charge,  either  because  they  happen  to  be 
connected  with  old  and  valued  customers, 
or,  more  often  still,  because  it  is  extremely 
difficult  to  actually  catch  such  persons  in 
the  act. 

One  method,  often  pursued  by  an  intelli- 
gent and  well-dressed  shop-lifter,  is  to  actually 
purchase  and  pay  for,  say,  a  pair  of  gloves,  or 
a  piece  of  real  lace,  and,  while  the  shopwoman 
is  obtaining  change,  or  even  when  she  is  only 
making  out  the  bill,  the  thief  manages  to 
pull  over  the  counter  several  other  pairs  of 
gloves  or  pieces  of  lace,  and  then,  stooping 
•down,  stuffs  them  into  her  hand-bag,  which 
has  been  previously  placed  on  the  ground 
in  readiness  for  the  operation. 

The  true  kleptomaniac,  as  differentiated 
from  the  ordinary  thief,  not  content  with 
taking  a  number  of  valuable  articles  from 
■one  counter,  will  go  through  the  whole  shop 
annexing  pieces  of  dress  material,  rolls  of 
silk,  half-a-dozen  pairs  of  stockings,  veils, 
and  even  such  articles  as  pairs  of  boots  and 
shoes,  not  one  of  which  will  fit  her !  This 
type  is  far  more  easily  detected  and  punished 
than  her  wiser   and    more   artful    sister  who 

contents  herself  with  only  stealing  articles 
from  one  counter,  and  who  pieces 
of  valuable  real  lace,  or  lengths  of  beautiful 
embroidery,  in  preference  to  heavier  or  more 
cumbersome  articles. 

In  connection  with  each  emporium  is  a 
regular  detective  service,  and  during  a  big 
sale  twelve  to  twenty  detectives  are  present 
in  the  shop.  At  these  times  every  drapery 
business  loses,  in  spite  of  the  vigilance  on 
the  part  of  the  detectives,  a  great  deal  of 
real  value,  mostly  in  fur  and  lace. 

It  is  difficult  to  over-estimate  the  responsi- 
bility borne  during  sale  days  by  these 
detectives.  Much  is  left  to  their  discretion 
and  tact,  for  it  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  the  making  on  their  part  of  a  "  mistake  " 
— that  is  to  say,  the  arresting  of  an  innocent 
person — would  do  the  establishment  with 
which  they  are  connected  incalculable  harm. 
So  true  is  this,  that  often  when  a  detective 
sees  a  lady  walking  off  with,  say,  a  valuable 
piece  of  lace,  unless  he  has  reason  to  suppose 
that  the  lady  in  question  is  really  a  pro- 
fessional thief,  he  simply  follows  her  to  the 
door,  and,  taking  the  article,  which  still  bears 
the  ticket  on  it,  from  her  hand  or  from  under 
her  cloak,  remarks  suavely,  "  Excuse  me, 
madam  ;  I  will  have  this  sent  home  for  you." 
As  a  rule,  the  thief  quickly  disappears  in 
the  crowd,  but  if  she  is  a  hardened  klepto- 
maniac she  may  reappear  the  very  next  day. 

Once  the  day's  work  is  over — that  is,  once 
the  doors  are  closed — the  young  lady  employees 
have  the  whole  evening  to  play  in  or  to  work 
for  themselves ;  they  also  have  Saturday 
afternoons  from  two  o'clock.  They  are  not, 
however,  allowed  to  go  out  from  Saturday 
to  Monday  unless  they  can  show  a  letter 
from  their  parents  authorising  them  to  do 
so,  and  stating  where  they  are  going. 
Those  young  ladies  who  remain  in  have 
pleasant  sitting-rooms  in  which  to  spend 
their  time,  and  plenty  of  books  and  games ; 
while  the  young  men  have  various  forms 
of  indoor  amusements,  including  billiards, 
and  on  fine  Saturday  afternoons  can  enjoy  the 
national  games  of  cricket  and  football,  large 
pieces  of  land  near  London  having  been 
secured  for  that  purpose  by  several  of  the 
leading  drapery  firms. 





EVERY  day  in  the  year  a  certain  number 
of  people  are  consulting  agents,  or 
referring  to  the  advertising  columns  of 
the  newspapers,  or  driving  or  walking  round 
the  residential  portions  of  London  in  search 
of  a  roof  for  their  heads.  The  bulk  of  them 
are  people  who  are  already  householders,  but 
who  wish  to  change  their  addresses.  Some- 
times the  change  is  due  to  prosperity,  some- 
times to  adversity,  frequently  to  the  increased 
accommodation  required  by  the  growing  up 
of  little  boys  and  girls.  In  some  cases,  in 
fact  in  many  cases,  it  is  the  mere  desire  for 
change.  But  we  have  not,  fortunately,  to 
concern  ourselves  with  motives — our  task  is 
the  lighter  one  of  accompanying  the  Lon- 
doner in  that  series  of  adventurous  expeditions 
commonly  known  as  "  house-hunting." 

For  the  wealthier  class  there  are  West-End 
firms  who  undertake  the  whole  business. 
These  firms  have  always  in  their  hands  the 
letting  of  a  certain  number  of  first-class  resi- 
dences in  the  localities  favoured  by  rank  and 
fashion.  The  fashionable  can- 
not go  very  far  afield  in  search  of  his  new 

address.  Society  has  certain  quarters  in 
which  it  keeps  itself  "  to  itself "  as  much  as 
possible  in  these  days  of  the  millionaire, 
native  and  imported  ;  therefore  the  fashion- 
able house-hunter  is  confined  to  one  of  the 
aristocratic  squares  or  streets  of  the  West 
or  South-West.  These  houses  are  not  gener- 
ally advertised,  nor  do  they  display  as  a  rule 
the  notice  boards  which  allow  the  passer-by 
to  know  that  they  are  to  be  let.  They  are 
placed  in  the  hands  of  a  firm  whose  speciality 
it  is  to  deal  in  "  town  mansions."  The 
people  who  desire  such  a  property  send  to 
such  a  firm  and  request  it  to  find  them  a 
residence.  The  firm  indicates  the  residences 
on  their  books,  and  the  rest  is  merely  a 
matter  for  the  solicitors  of  the  two  parties 
to  the  transaction.  When  the  purchase  or 
the  leasing  is  completed  the  world  is  in- 
formed in  the  "  Society  "  columns  of  the  daily 
papers  that  Lord  This  or  Lady  That  has 
taken  Number  So-and-so,  Berkeley,  or 
Cavendish,  or  Portman,  or  Eaton,  or  Grosvenor 
Square,  or  Park  Lane,  as  the  case  may  be. 
Occasionally  photographs  are  taken  of  resi- 



dential  properties  of  the  first  class  and  may  be 
seen  in  the  front  windows  of,  let  us  say,  Messrs. 
E.  and  H.  Lumley,  in  St.  James's  Street.  The 
higher-class  house  furnishers  are  also  house 
agents,  and  have  generally  on  hand  a  number 
of  photographs,  thus  enabling  their  clients  to 
see  what  a  house  looks  like  without  the 
trouble  of  going  to  it.  If  the  photograph 
makes  a  good  impression, 
personal  inspection  follows  ; 
but  in  some  cases  houses, 
principally  furnished  houses 
let  for  the  season  or  a  limited 
period,  are  taken  for  clients 
abroad  who  see  their  new 
home  for  the  first  time  when 
they  drive  to  it  from  the 
railway  station. 

But  for  the  great  body 
of  house-hunters,  the  ordin- 
ary family  folk  who  have 
many  things  to  consider 
before  their  address  is  altered 
in  the  Post  Office  Directory, 
the  process  of  house-hunting 
is  at  once  more  absorbing, 
more  anxious,  and  more 

The  time  has  come  when 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Horace  Brown 
feel  that  their  present  house 
is  not  large  enough  for  them. 
They  started  housekeeping 
two  in  family,  with  a  couple 
of  servants  ;  now  they  are 
five  in  family,  and  they  have 
three  servants.  Mr.  Brown 
is  in  the  City,  and  a  busy 
man.  He  hates  the  idea  of 
moving,  but  his  wife  has  dinned  into  his  ears 
morning,  noon,  and  night  that  it  is  quite 
impossible  they  can  stay  where  they  are  any 
longer,  and  has  at  last  induced  him  to  consent 
to  the  taking  of  a  more  desirable  residence. 

But  he  absolutely  refuses  to  take  any  part 
in  the  preliminary  search  ;  he  has  his  business 
to  attend  to.  Once  or  twice  on  a  Sunday  he 
has  been  cajoled  into  taking  a  drive  round 
the  suburban  district  which  Mrs.  Brown 
"  fancies  "  in  order  to  look  at  the  houses  which 
are  exhibiting  boards ;  but  none  of  them  have 
seemed  quite  the  thing,  and  he  has  declined 
to  make  any  further  sacrifice  of  his  Sunday's 

rest  to  the  contemplation  of  house  agents' 
boards  stuck  up  in  front  gardens ;  though 
these  boards,  as  will  be  .seen  in  our  photo- 
graphic illustration,  "  A  Choice  of  Agents," 
sometimes  make  a  brave  show  and  furnish 
quite  a  large  amount  of  reading. 

So  Mrs.  Brown  has  to  go  hunting  alone. 
Her     instructions     are    to    find     the    place 


that  will  suit,  and  then  Mr.  Brown  will  try 
to  get  away  from  the  City  for  an  hour  or 
two  to  look  at  it.  It  is  an  anxious  time 
for  poor  Mrs.  Brown.  She  reads  the  ad- 
vertisements in  the  papers,  she  calls  at  house 
agents',  she  gets  their  lists,  day  after  day  she 
hurries  off  hither  and  thither  to  look  at  this 
desirable  residence  and  that  eligible  villa;  but 
there  is  always  a  "  something."  At  one  house 
which  she  would  have  liked  very  much  there 
are  an  absurd  number  of  fixtures  to  be  taken  ; 
another,  which  is  all  that  could  be  desired  in 
the  way  of  accommodation,  is  next  door  to  a 
church   with   a   powerful   peal   of  bells.     In 



A\    INSl'ECTION    BY   THE   DOG. 

another  she  discovers  that  the  drainage  is  not 
above  suspicion  ;  in  }'et  another  that  a  rail- 
way runs  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  and 
that  every  ten  minutes  the  "  desirable  resi- 
dence "  rocks  with  all  the  premonitory  symp- 
toms of  an  earthquake. 

She  goes  back  to  the  house  agent  and 
enters  into  fresh  explanations,  and  he  sup- 
plies her  with  a  list  of  six  houses,  each  of 
which  he  thinks  will  exactly  suit  her  require- 
ments. This  time  she  insists  on  her  husband 
accompanying  her.  She  is  most  anxious  to 
settle  ;  she  wants  his  moral  support  in  assist- 
ing her  to  a  decision.  Mr.  Brown  is  grump)', 
but  eventually  con.sents  to  sacrifice  an 
afternoon,  and  they  set  out  together. 

The  first  is  empty,  and  in  charge 
of  a  caretaker.  The  caretaker  is  a  woman 
with  two  children  and  a  husband.  The 
husband  is  out  of  work,  and  at  home ;  he  is 
smoking  a  pipe,  and  has  it  in  his  mouth  when 

he  opens  the  door.  Mrs.  Brown 
boldly  attacks  the  situation.  She 
has  come  to  see  the  house,  and 
hands  the  man  the  agent's  order 
to  view.  The  man  scowls,  goes  to 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  and  calls  out, 
"  'Lizer  —  somebody  to  see  the 

'Lizer  appears,  wiping  her  hands 
on  her  apron,  takes  the  card 
gingerly,  and  flings  open  the  dining- 
room  door  \\ithout  a  word.  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Brown  look  at  the  dining- 
room,  exchange  a  few  remarks  in 
a  low  \'oice  —  nobody  ever  talks 
loudly  while  viewing  an  empty 
house,  for  there  is  always  a  sense  of 
restraint  in  the  process — and  come 
out  into  the  hall.  'Lizer  flings  open 
the  door  on  the  other  side,  and  says, 
"Drorin' room."  While  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Brown  are  looking  at  the  drawing- 
room  and  mentally  measuring  it  a 
baby  begins  to  cry  in  the  basement, 
and  'Lizer  goes  to  the  top  of  the 
stairs  and  shouts  down  some  do- 
mestic instructions  to  her  husband. 
When  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  come 
out  of  the  drawing-room  'Lizer  con- 
ducts them  upstairs.  She  walks 
much  after  the  manner  of  a  clergy- 
man preceding  a  coffin  to  the  grave- 
side. She  flings  open  the  bedroom  doors 
one  after  the  other.  Presently  she  gathers 
from  the  remarks  of  the  visitors  that  the 
house  is  likely  to  suit  them,  and  instantly 
her  manner  changes.  She  becomes  more 
friendly,  she  volunteers  little  communications 
as  to  the  length  of  time  the  house  has  been 
empty,  she  thinks  that  the  reason  no  one 
has  taken  it  is  that  it  is  damp.  She  even 
confesses  that  she  and  her  husband  have 
suffered  from  rheumatism  a  good  deal  since 
they  have  lived  in  it.  She  doesn't  quite 
volunteer  this  information,  she  allows  it  to 
be  dragged  from  her  as  it  were.  Mr.  Brown 
is  impressed  with  her  candour  ;  Mrs.  Brown 
is  grateful.  When  the  inspection  is  com- 
pleted 'Lizer  is  presented  with  a  couple  of 
shillings.  "  Thank  goodness  that  woman 
was  honest,"  says  Mr.  Brown  when  he  gets 
outside ;  "  I  shall  save  doctors'  bills  for  the 
next    seven    years ;   for  I    liked  the   house." 



Inside,  'Lizer  joins  her  husband  in  the 
kitchen.  "  They  looked  like  taking  it,"  she 
says;  "but  I  told  'em  it  was  terrible  damp, 
and  that  settled  'em."  The  man  heaves  a 
sigh  of  relief.  To  have  had  to  turn  out 
just  now  would  have  been  decidedly  incon- 

The  next  house  visited  by  the  Browns  is 
occupied.  The  family  are  still  in  it.  The 
housemaid,  who  opens  the  door,  looks  at  the 
card  and  says,  "  Oh,  to  see  the  house  !  "  and 
vanishes,  leaving  the  visitors  standing  in  the 
outer  hall. 

When  she  returns  she  says,  "  This  way, 
please,"  and  opens  a  door.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Brown  are  about  to  enter  when  they  discover 
that  members  of  the  family  are  there.  The 
members  of  the  family  try  to  look  agreeable, 
but  glare.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Brown  remain  on 
the  threshold  and  just  peer  in.  "  Thank  you, 
that  will  do,"  says  Mrs.  Brown.  The  same 
process  is  repeated  in  the  next  room,  where  a 
young  lady  is  practising  at  the  piano.  "  I — 
er — think  you'd  better  go  and  see  the  bed- 
rooms," says  Mr.  Brown  somewhat  nervously 
to  his  better  half;  "  I'll  stay  here."  And  he 
remains  patiently  in  the  hall,  like  a 
man  who  has  brought  a  parcel  from  the 
draper's  and  is  waiting  for  the  money.  The 
dog  of  the  family  suddenly  appears  and  eyes 
him  suspiciously.  Mr.  Brown  feels  rather 
nervous,  especially  as  the  dog  approaches 
to  make  a  closer  scrutiny  of  his  legs.    For  the 

first  time  in  his  life  Mr.  Brown  is  sorry  he  has 
never  kept  a  dog  ;  he  has  always  understood 
that  if  you  keep  a  dog  strange  dogs  discover 
it  quickly,  and  become  friendly.  Just  as  he 
is  wondering  whether  it  would  not  be  wise 
to  call  for  a  member  of  the  family,  in  order 
that  it  may  be  explained  to  the  animal  that 
he  is  not  there  with  dishonest  intentions,  a 
young  gentleman  makes  his  appearance,  and, 
hurriedly  seizing  the  dog  by  the  collar,  drags 
him  away  and  pushes  him  through  the  swing 
door  at  the  top  of  the  kitchen  stairs.  "  Keep 
Bill  downstairs,"  he  calls  out ;  "  some  people 
are  looking  over  the  house."  Then  he  turns 
to  Mr.  Brown  half  apologetically.  "  'Bliged 
to  be  careful  with  him,"  he  says  ;  "  he  bit  the 
washing  man  yesterday." 

Presently  Mrs.  Brown  comes  downstairs, 
looking  hot  and  flurried.  "  Do  you  want  to 
go  into  the  kitchen  ? "  says  the  housemaid. 
"No — I- — er — think  not,"  Mrs.  Brown 
stammers.  Mr.  Brown  is  greatly  relieved. 
In  a  few  seconds  he  and  his  wife  are  outside. 
"  Oh,  my  dear,"  she  says,  "  I  didn't  see  the 
house,  I  only  went  into  two  bedrooms.  The 
eldest  daughter  was  lying  down  in  one  with  a 
bad  headache,  and  there  was  an  old  lady  in 
the  other— the  grandmother  I  think — who 
has  epileptic  fits.  She  was  in  one  then, 
and,  of  course,  I  said  I  wouldn't  disturb  her." 
"  And  I've  nearly  been  bitten  by  a  savage 
dog,"  exclaims  Mr.  Brown.  "  No  more  house- 
hunting for  me ! " 




with  STABLINC«over 


'        .      =  TO  BE  LET 




But  the  afternoon  is  still  young,  and  a 
house  must  be  found,  so  at  last  he  is  pacified, 
and  calls  with  his  wife  at  the  next  address. 
Here  everything  is  satisfactory.  The  house 
is  admirably  adapted  for  their  requirements  ; 
it  is  sunny,  it  is  dry,  there  is  an  excellent 
garden,  a  good  view  from  the  windows,  and 
the  caretaker  says  there  are  two  "  parties " 
after  it.  Mr.  Brown  says,  "  Ah  !  this  will  do  ; 
we'll  go  to  the  agent's  at  once,  and  see  about 
the  fixtures,  and  settle."  The  agent  is  at  the 
West-End.  They  take  a  hansom  and  drive 
to  his  place  of  business  at  once.  On  the  way 
they  discuss  the  rooms.  Mr.  Brown  selects 
one  for  a  smoking-room,  Mrs.  Brown  decides 
on  one  with  a  sunny  outlook  for  her  boudoir. 
In  two  of  the  rooms  the  old  carpets  will  fit, 
which  is  a  great  blessing.  They  arrive  at  the 
agent's,  and  inform  the  clerk  that  they  will 
take  Laburnum  Villa.  The  clerk  goes  into 
the  private  office,  and  returns  quickly.     "  Mr. 

is  very  sorry,  sir,  but  he  has  just  had 

a  telegram  to  say  a  gentleman  who  looked 
over  the  house  yesterday,  and  had  the  refusal 
till  to-day,  has  wired  to  say  he  will  take  it." 

What  Mr.  Brown  says  does  not  matter. 
Mrs.  Brown  feels  inclined  to  cry.  It  is  so 
annoying  ;  and  it  is  getting  late.  Instead  of 
seeing  any  more  houses,  the  Browns  go  home, 
and  the  evening  repast  is  a  gloomy  one.  Mr. 
Brown  is  "  sick  of  the  whole  business."  He 
talks  wildly  about  staying  where  they  are — 

they  will  have  the  children's  beds  moved  into 
Mrs.  Brown's  room,  and  he  will  sleep  in  the 
coal  cellar. 

But  with  the  morning  comes  reason,  and 
more  house-hunting.  Eventually  the  Browns 
succeed  in  securing  a  house  after  their  own 
hearts,  and,  after  paying  for  about  forty 
pounds'  worth  of  fixtures  which  are  of  no 
earthly  use  to  them,  they  move  in.  And 
once  in  Mr.  Brown  declares  that  he  won't 
move  out  or  go  house-hunting  again  as  long 
as  he  lives. 

Flats,  with  all  their  advantages,  do  not 
always  retain  their  charm  for  Londoners. 
There  is  a  great  difficulty  in  getting  good 
servants,  for  Mary  Jane  looks  upon  life  on  the 
third  or  fourth  floor  of  a  huge  block  of  build- 
ings as  too  far  removed  from  the  world  below. 
In  many  flats  the  kitchen  and  the  servants' 
rooms  look  out  on  back  streets  or  back 
gardens,  and  so  the  servant  difficulty  forces 
many  a  flat  family  into  house-hunting.  Then 
comes  the  difficulty  that  the  furniture  of  a 
flat  does  not  always  suit  houses  which  are 
differently  arranged,  and  generally  much  more 
spacious  in  their  room  measurement.  The 
flat  house-hunter  therefore  hunts  generally 
for  a  house  which  can  be  fitted  and  furnished 
with  the  flat  "  belongings,"  and  makes  many 
anxious  inquiries  as  to  rates  and  taxes,  which 
were  covered  by  the  flat  rent.  The  flat  people 
invariably  want   more   garden    than   anyone 



else,  because  they  have  been  without  a  garden 
for  so  long  ;  and,  having  had  the  use  of  a  lift, 
they  look  at  stairs  with  a  critical  eye.  To 
find  a  house  that  will  satisfy  the  family 
moving  from  a  flat  is  one  of  the  house  agents' 
most  difficult  tasks. 

The  small  house-hunter  is  perhaps  the  most 
genuine  hunter  of  all.  She — it  is  generally 
the  wife,  for  the  husband  is  in  employment 
and  not  his  own  master — covers  ten  miles  in 
her  search  to  the  better  class  house-hunter's 
one.  She  has  no  agent  to  assist  her, 
and  not  only  is  the  rent  a  great  con- 
sideration, but  she  must  make  sure  that 
the  'bus  or  train  service  is  convenient  for  her 
husband's  daily  journeys  to  and  from  his  place 
of  employment.  As  quarter  day  approaches 
the  young  wife  becomes  feverish  in  her  an.xiety. 
Notice  has  been  given  to  her  landlord,  and 
another  tenant  has  been  secured.  Visions  of 
her  household  goods  piled  on  a  van  with  no 
address  to  be  given  to  the  driver,  and  herself 
and  little  ones  homeless  in  the  street  on  a 
pouring  wet  day,  haunt  her  imagination.  At 
last  she  is  in  the  condition  when  she  will  take 
anything.  She  sees  a  place  that  will  suit — 
though  it  is  not  quite  what  she  would  have 
liked — and  she  hopes  and  prays  that  it  will 
remain  vacant  till  Saturday,  for  on  Saturday 
afternoon  her  husband  can  go  and  see  it.  If 
he  says  it  will  do,  her  principal  terror  is 
removed — men's  ideas  of  houses  differ  so 
much  from  women's.     At  last  the  house   is 

taken,  and  the  references  given.  The  refer- 
ences are  a  worry  to  many  men  who  have  no 
banker.  It  is  a  delicate  thing  to  write  to 
a  friend  in  a  good  position  and  .say  "  Will  you 
be  my  reference?"  As  a  rule,  in  small  pro- 
perties the  last  landlord's  reference  is  sufficient. 
But  many  landlords  ask  for  two.  The  second 
reference  keeps  many  an  honest  man  awake 
of  nights  just  before  quarter  day. 

The  way  in  which  the  population  of  London 
drifts  and  changes,  and  flits  from  house  to 
house  and  from  neighbourhood  to  neighbour- 
hood, is  always  wonderful,  but  the  most 
remarkable  feature  of  the  "  general  post " 
which  takes  place  on  the  great  moving  days 
— Lady  Day  and  Michaelmas  Day — is  that 
all  the  new  villa  residences  springing  up  in 
every  direction  around  the  Metropolis  are 
snapped  up  almost  before  the  slates  are  on 
them.  Hardly  are  the  windows  in  before  a 
large  "  Let "  is  whited  on  them.  The  old 
neighbourhoods  are  still  densely  inhabited, 
the  boards  after  quarter  day  are  few  and  far 
between  ;  but  in  some  mysterious  way  a  new 
population  is  continually  entering  the  capital, 
and  the  stream  of  house-hunters  spreads 
itself  over  neighbourhoods  that  a  year 
previously  were  green  fields  and  meadows  and 
country  lanes.  A  year  later  they  will  have 
their  streets  of  thriving  shops,  their  pawn- 
broker and  hotel,  their  local  Bon  March^, 
their  telephone  call  office,  and  their  local 





ONE  of  the  most  remarkable  developments 
in  Living  London  of  late  years  is  that 
of  the  modern  music-halls — or  Theatres 
of  Varieties,  as  they  are  mostly  called,  except 
when  the_\'  are  described  as  Empires  or 
Palaces.  The  variety  form  of  entertainment 
now  so  prevalent  is  a  real  boon  to  those 
amusement-seekers  who  cannot,  even  if  they 
would,  indulge  in  playgoing  at  the  so-called 
"  regular "  theatres.  Working  hours  have 
for  many  to  be  continued  until  it  is  too  late 
to  reach  home  in  time  to  come  out  again  to 
the  play — especially  for  those  who  are  only 
able  to  afford  unbookable  seats. 

For  these  hampered  toilers  the  music-hall 
or  variety  form  of  entertainment  is  the  only 
thing  of  the  show  kind  available.  They  can 
take  or  leave  the  entertainment  at  any  hour 
they  please — the  programme  given  being,  of 
course,  everything  by  "  turns  "  and  nothing 
long.  Besides  all  this — and  it  is  an  important 
factor — there  is  the  chance  of  enjoying  a 
smoke,  a  luxury  prohibited  in  all  theatres 
run  under  the  Lord  Chamberlain's  licence. 

The  most  striking  examples  of  the  modern 
variety  theatres  in  London  are  the  Empire, 
the  Alhambra,  and  the  London  Hippodrome. 
Next  to  these  would  undoubtedly  rank  those 
other  popular  West-End  resorts,  the  Palace 
Theatre,  the  Oxford,  the  Tivoli,  and  the 
London  Pavilion,  together  with  the  more 
recently  established  Coliseum  and  the  con- 
verted Lyceum  Theatre. 

The  Empire  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
buildings,  as  regards  its  interior,  to  be  found 
in  the  Metropolis.  Its  entertainment  is  of  a 
high  class,  and  its  gorgeous  ballets  and  other 
e.vtensive  and  expensive  spectacular  produc- 
tions are  patronised  not  only,  in  addition  to 
its  large  general  audience,  by  our  "  gilded 
youth,"  but  by  all  sorts  of  society  folk. 

The  Alhambra — a  huge  Moorish  building 
— is,  in  its  status  and  its  style  of  entertain- 
ment, similar  to  the  Empire,  with  the  differ- 
ence that  it  claims — and  rightly — precedence 

of  all  neighbouring  places  of  the  sort.  Indeed, 
its  own  proud  description  is,  "The  Premier 
Variety  Theatre  of  London."  This  house 
was  certainly  the  first  to  introduce  the  big 
ballet  and  spectacular  form  of  entertainment. 
For  many  years  a  large  proportion  of  visitors 
to  the  Metropolis  made  the  Alhambra  their 
first  variety  "house  of  call."  Nowadays, 
however,  these  visitors  must  perforce  take  in 
the  Empire  and  the  other  important  variety 

A  few  steps  from  these  huge  halls  is  the 
London  Hippodrome,  one  of  the  most 
remarkable  buildings  in  the  great  city. 
Although  so  close  to  the  Empire  and  the 
Alhambra,  the  entertainments  and  the  audi- 
ences are  of  a  totally  difterent  character. 
The  Hippodrome  programme  is  principally 
made  up  of  equestrian,  gymnastic,  and 
menagerie  "turns,"  plus  a  burletta  or  pan- 
tomime. This  last  must  include  at  least  one 
aquatic  scene  of  some  sort,  in  which  the 
comedians  (most  of  them  expert  swimmers) 
disport  on  or  in  the  large  lake  which,  by  a 
wonderful  mechanical  process,  when  required, 
fills  up  the  circus  ring.  The  Hippodrome's 
audiences  are  not  of  the  lounging"after  dinner" 
or  "  round  the  town  "  kind,  but  are  in  a  great 
measure  formed  of  family  groups,  headed  by 
pater  or  mater,  or  both.  Indeed,  most  of 
its  'patrons  are  of  the  sedate  domestic  sort. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  the  fact  of  the  Hippo- 
drome being,  like  so  many  of  the  new  large 
variety  theatres,  forbidden  a  liquor  licence, 
is  in  itself  (however  unfair  it  may  seem)  an 
attraction  for  most  of  those  who  take  their 
youngsters  to  such  entertainments.  The 
Hippodrome — the  auditorium  of  which  is 
a  sight — resembles  the  Alhambra  and  the 
Empire  in  one  respect,  namely  that  not  a  few 
of  its  artistes  are  foreigners,  and  that  many 
of  its  performances  are  in  dumb  show.  Our 
photographic  illustration  on  page  224 
depicts  a  scene  beneath  the  arena  of  the 
Hippodrome.       Here     are     heavy     wooden 

READY   TO   PASS    IN    ("  WONDERLAND  "). 




" properties "  about  to  be  con\eyed  abo\e, 
while  "  supers  "  and  stage  hands  are  crowded 
together  in  readiness  for  their  particular 

The  O.xford,  the  Tivoli,  and  the  London 
Pavilion  are  likewise  sumptuous  if  somewhat 
smaller  establishments.  At  these  resorts, 
however,  comic  and  "  serio "  singing,  sand- 
wiched with  short  acrobatic,  dancing,  and 
trick  cycling  "  acts,"  and  fifteen  or  twenty 
minutes'   sketches,   are    the   rule.     The   best 

Andre  Messager'sZrt  Basoche,  Fortune  frowned 
upon  the  enterprise.  Ere  long  Sir  Augustus 
Harris  transformed  it  into  a  variety  theatre, 
with  its  present  name.  Its  entertainment  is 
one  of  the  best  of  its  class,  not  only  as  regards 
its  singers  and  dancers,  pantomimists,  mimics, 
sketch  artists,  and  others  of  all  nations  and 
denominations,  but  also  its  beautiful  and 
realistic  biograph  pictures. 

At  the  Coliseum,  which  has  an  electric  re- 
volving stage,fourperformancesare  given  daily, 


available  artistes  are  engaged  at  these  three 
houses.  Oftentimes  the  same  "  stars  "  appear 
on  the  same  evening  at  the  three  halls,  which 
are  virtually  run  by  one  .syndicate.  When  a 
comic  or  a  "  serio  "  "  star  "  books  an  engage- 
ment with  this  syndicate,  he  or  she  is  required 
to  stipulate  by  contract  not  to  appear  at  any 
other  hall  within  a  radius  of  so  many 
miles.  This  "  barring  out "  clause,  as  it  is 
called,  has  also  of  late  prevailed  in  connec- 
tion with  certain  of  the  larger  music  halls  in 
suburban  I-ondon. 

The  Palace  Theatre,  in  Shaftesbury  Avenue, 
is  a  beautiful  building,  which  was  opened 
by  Mr.  D'Oyley  Carte  as  the  English  Opera 
House.  In  spite  of  such  excellent  operatic 
works  as  Sir  Arthur  Sullivan's  Ivanhoe  and 

the  entertainment  being  principally  singing 
and  dancing  ;  while  the  Lyceum,  with  its  two 
"  houses "  a  night,  resembles  what  are  called 
"Empires."     In  each  cheap  seats  are  the  rule. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  the  old-time  stuffy 
music-hall  has  been  killed  by  such  places  as 
the  splendid  variety  houses  referred  to,  to  say 
nothing  of  those  other  large  and  admirably 
conducted  halls  such  as  the  Royal  in  Holborn, 
the  Metropolitan  in  the  Edgware  Road,  the 
Canterbury  in  the  densely  crowded  Lambeth 
district,  and  the  Paragon  in  the  still  more 
densely  crowded  Mile  End  region. 

Besides  these  resorts  there  have  sprung 
up  several  vast  "  Empires "  such  as  those 
respectively  at  New  Cross,  Holloway,  Strat- 
ford,   Shepherd's    Bush,   and    Hackney,    all 



under  the   direction   of   the   wealthy   syndicate  that   runs   the   London 
Hippodrome  and  a  number  of  "Empires"  in  the  provinces. 

If  one  should  desire  to  get  some  notion  of  how  the  "  toiling,  moiling 
myrmidons "  (as  Beranger   calls   them)    patronise  these  new  "  Empires," 
he  has  only  to  watch   outside   any   of  them  just   before  the  doors  are 
opened  for  the  first  or  second  "  house."     For  be  it 
noted    that    two  entire   performances    are    given    at 
each   nightly,   and    at    small    prices    of    admission. 
Moreover,  the  programmes  always   contain    several 
highly-paid  variety  artistes — whether  of  the  comic 
singing,  acrobatic,  canine,  or  sketch  kind.     Indeed, 
it  is    not    at    all    unusual    to   find    here  a   favourite 
performer  in  receipt  of  at  least  one  hundred  pounds 
per  week ;    not   to   mention    this   or   that   leading 
serio-comic  lady  or  "  Comedy  Queen "  at  a   salary 
not  much   lower.      Yet,   in   spite  of  such 
princely  salaries,   the  prices  of  admission 
are  small,  ranging,  say,  from  two  shillings 
or    eighteenpence    in    the    best    parts    to 
threepence  in  the  gallery. 

That  these  "  Empires,"  "  Palaces,"  and 
similar  halls  are  run  not  only  with  ex- 
cellent    programmes     but 

placed  be- 
fore them  all 
sorts  of 
"turns"  be- 
sides those 
tioned,   and 

also     on     strictly     proper 
lines  is  proved  by  the  fact 
that,  moderate  though  the 
admission  prices    may    be, 
the     patrons     come     from 
some  of  the  best  parts  of 
Hampstead,  Stoke  Newing- 
ton,    Catford,    Blackheath, 
Woodford,  and 
so  forth.    Here 
recreation - 
seekers  may — 
and    do — have 



comprising  many  examples, 
such   as  conjurers,  acrobats, 
performing  elephants,  seals, 
bears,  instrumentalist.s — 
comic  and  otherwise.    Often 
be    found    old    stagers 
or    juvenile     performers     of    dramatic 
sketches,  sometimes  made  up  of  boiled- 
down    plays — even    of    Hamlet,   in    a 
twenty-minutes'  version  of  that  play. 

To  those  amusement-seekers  who 
may  prefer  to  take  their  variety  enter- 
tainment in  a  rough-and-ready  form 
there  are  still  such  haunts  as  that 
Whitechapel  resort  fancifully  named 
"Wonderland."  In  this  big  hall  are 
provided  entertainments  of  the  most 
extraordinary  description.  They  in- 
clude little  plays,  songs,  and  sketches,  given  first  in 
Yiddish  dialect  and  afterwards  translated  into  more  or 
less  choice  English  by,  as  a  rule,  a  Hebraic  interpreter. 
This  interpreter  often  improves  the  occasion  by  calling 
the  attention  of  kind — and  mostly  alien  —  friends  in 
front  to  certain  side  shows  consisting  of  all  sorts  of 
armless,  legless,  skeleton,  or  spotted  "  freaks  "  scattered 
around  the  recesses  of  this  great  galleryless  hall.  When  once  the 
"  freaks "  have  been  e.xamined,  or  the  "  greeners "  and  other  foreign 
and  East-End  "  sweated  "  Jew  toilers  have  utilised  the  interval  to  indulge 
in  a  little  light  refreshment  according  to  their  respective  tastes,  the 
Yiddish  sketches  and  songs — comic  and  otherwise — are  resumed  until 
"  closing  time." 

It  is,  however,  on  its  Boxing  Nights  (which  in  this  connection  means 



Mondays  and  Saturdays)  that  "Wonderland" 
is  to  be  seen  in  its  most  thrilling  form. 
Then  it  is  indeed  difficult  either  to  get  in 
or  to  get  out.  In  the  first  place  it  is  hard 
to  get  in  because  of  the  great  crowds  of 
hard  -  faring — often  hard  -  faced  —  East  -  End 
worshippers  of  the  fistic  art  ;  several  t\-pes 
of  which  are  to  be  seen  in  our  photographic 
illustration  on  page  223.  In  the  second 
place,    if   \'ou    do    contrive    to    get   in   you 


speedily  find  yourself  so  hemmed  in  by 
a  .sardine-like  packed  mob  that  all  egress 
seems  hopeless. 

Several  other  extremely  typical  East-End 
variety  resorts,  each  of  a  totally  different 
kind,  are  close  at  hand.  One  is  the  huge 
Paragon  Theatre  of  Varieties,  further  east 
in  the  Mile  End  Road.  Another  is  the 
much  smaller  Cambridge  Music-Hail,  which 
is  in  Commercial  Street,  a  little  way  west- 
ward from  Toynbee  Hall.  There  are  also 
the  Queen's  Music-Hall  at  Poplar,  the  Royal 
Albert  at  Canning  Town,  and  the  Eastern 
Empire  at  Bow. 

In  spite  of  its  cheap  prices  and  its  seeth- 
ing audiences,  the  Paragon  entertainment  is 
exactly  on  a  par  with  those  given  in  the 
Wcst-l'Lnd  and  South  of  London  Variety 
Theatres.  Indeed,  the  entertainment  at  the 
Paragon  is  mostly  identical  with  that  supplied 
at  the  Canterbury,  Westminster  Bridge  Road, 
and  is  under  the  same  s^mdicate.  As  for  the 
Canterbury,  the  better   class  South  London 

tradesfolk  and  toilers  go  there,  excepting,  of 
course,  when  they  visit  the  newer  and  equally 
well  managed  South  of  London  variety  shows. 
The  Cambridge  Music  -  Hall,  between 
Spitalfields  and  Shoreditch,  deserves  a  few 
special  lines.  In  point  of  fact,  ever  since  the 
time  when,  years  ago,  it  was  converted  from 
a  .s\-nagogue  into  a  music-hall,  the  Hebrew 
residents  of  the  locality  have  made  it  a 
point    of  honour    to    attend    the    Cambridge. 

With  them  they 
often  bring  not  only 
their  wives,  but  also 
their  black-curled, 
black  -  eyed  infants, 
who  may  often  be 
seen  toddling  calmly 
about  the  stalls  — 
especially  during  the 
earlier  of  the  two 
"  houses  "  per  night. 

Round  the  corner 
in  Shoreditch  is  the 
London  Music-Hall, 
wherein  the  stranger 
who  pays  his  first 
visit  will  undoubtedly 
fancy  for  the  nonce 
that  he  has  lost  his 
way  and  has  by  acci- 
dent strayed  into  one  of  the  best  West- 
End  halls. 

Further  north  there  are  several  more  or  less 
large  and  more  or  less  "  classy "  variety 
houses  :  for  example,  the  two  "  houses  "  per 
night  resort,  the  Euston,  opposite  St.  Pancras 
Station  ;  the  Bedford,  in  Camden  Town  ;  the 
Islington  Empire,  which  is  next  door  to  the 
Agricultural  Hall  ;  the  old-established  music- 
hall,  Collins's,  on  Islington  Green  ;  and  the 
newer  Palaces  atWalthamstow  and  Tottenham. 
The  west-central  district  and  southern 
suburbs  are  also  well  provided  for  in  a 
music-hall  sense.  Among  others,  one  notes 
the  old  Middlesex,  or  "  Mogul,"  in  Drury 
Lane ;  the  Granville,  at  Walham  Green ; 
Empires  at  Balham  and  Deptford  ;  an 
Empress  at  Brixton  ;  a  Royal  Standard  at 
Pimlico ;  and  a  Star  at  Bermondsey  ;  and 
Palaces  at  Camberwell,  Chelsea,  the  London 
Road  (Southwark),  and  Croydon.  To  add 
to  the  number,  the  old  Surrey  Theatre  is 
now  run  on  music-hall  lines.     Besides  these 



may  be  mentioned  Gatti's  in  Westminster 
Bridge  Road,  a  Grand  at  Clapham  Junction, 
and  a  Palace  at  Hammersmith. 

Like  the  halls  themselves,  the  agents  who 
supply  the  managers  with  artistes  at  so 
much  per  cent,  commission  on  the  salaries 
have,  too,  not  only  much  improved  in 
character,  but  have  in  many  cases  migrated 
from  their  former  dingy  haunts  in  the  York 
Road,  Lambeth,  to  more  commodious — not 
to  say  palatial  —  offices  in  or  around  the 
Strand,  the  Haymarket,  and  elsewhere. 
Some  few  of  them,  however,  still  have  their 
offices  near  a  well-known  tavern  at  a  corner 
of  York  Road ;  and  at  certain  hours  a  large 
number  of  minor  music-hall  entertainers  and 

Nowadays  the  music-hail  ranks  include  large 
numbers  of  the  worthiest  of  citizens.  And, 
what  is  still  better,  they  have  combined 
together  of  late  years  to  organise  several 
protective  associations,  such  as  the  Variety 
Club  and  the  Music  -  Hall  Railway  Rates 
Association,  as  well  as  to  found  some  excel- 
lent charities  for  benefiting  their  brethren  out 
of  health — or  out  of  work — and  to  provide 
for  the  widows  and  orphans  of  comrades 
who  have  fallen  by  the  way. 

The  chief  of  these  charities  is  the  Music- 


their  agents  may — as  shown  in  the  above 
illustration — still  be  seen  congregating  near 
this  old-established  hostelry. 

Music-hall  "artistes"  (as  they  love  to  call 
themselves)  have  also  vastly  improved.  Not 
many  years  ago  these  were  mostly  shiftless 
and   thriftless   from   the  "stars"   downward. 

Hall  Benevolent  Fund,  a  very  fine  organisa- 
tion, the  committee  of  which  consists  of  many 
of  the  most  important  and  most  honourable 
men  to  be  found  in  any  department  of 
life.  From  time  to  time  the  smaller  associa- 
tions assist  their  parent  fund,  or  the  Music- 
Hall    Home    for    the    Sick    and    Aged,   by 



arranging  matinees  or  sports.  In  the  case 
of  the  Music-Hail  Railway  Rates  Associa- 
tion all  the  surplus  of  the  money  subscribed 
thereto  for  the  purposes  of  getting  the  fares 
reduced  for  travelling  "  artistes "  is  handed 
over  to  one  or  other  of  the  aforesaid  charities. 

And  though  the  members  of  the  smaller 
music-hall  societies  delight  to  call  themselves 
by  such  names  as  "  Water  Rats,"  "  Terriers," 
and  "  J's,"  and  to  dress  themselves  as  ostriches, 
savages,  cowboys.  Red  Indians,  and  so  on 
at  their  annual  sports,  or  to  disport  as  comic 
cricketers  in  all  sorts  of  extraordinary  cos- 
tumes— what  does  it  matter,  seeing  that  they 
do  it  all  for  charit)''s  sake  ?  Thus,  by  draw- 
ing vast  crowds  of  the  general  public,  they  add 
substantially  to  the  funds  of  their  excellent 

As  will  be  seen  from  the  photographic 
illustration  on  page  223,  the  "  behind  the 
scenes"  life  of  Music-Hail  London  is  not 
without  its  humours.  In  "  Waiting  to  Go 
On  "  we  have,  indeed,  a  motley  throng  of 
variety  "  turns."  These  include  a  famous 
"  serio  "  in  Early  Victorian  "  dandy  "  cos- 
tume ;  a  popular  "  comic "  in  the  usual 
battered  hat  and  ill-fitting  clothes  which 
such  comedians  always  adopt ;    a  celebrated 

conjurer,  a  couple  of  clever  "  descriptive " 
singers,  a  noted  strong  man,  and  several 
others.  This  "  Waiting  to  Go  On "  repre- 
sents, of  course,  quite  a  different  state  of 
things  from  the  arrangements  in  a  regular 
theatre,  where  every  entrance  and  exit  is 
fixed,  and  where  the  players  have  to  report 
themselves,  as  a  rule,  some  time  before  the 
curtain  rises.  Music-hall  entertainers  must, 
if  they  wish  to  earn  a  remunerative  amount 
per  week,  do  three  or  four  "  turns  "  a  night ; 
and  in  order  to  travel  from  hall  to  hall,  a 
brougham — or,  in  the  case  of  a  troupe,  a 
private  omnibus  —  has  to  be  provided. 
When  they  arrive  they  are  naturally  in  a 
hurry  to  get  their  work  over,  and  are  apt 
to  get  in  each  other's  way,  either  in  the 
dressing-room  or  at  the  wings.  As  most 
music-hall  entertainers  start  from  home 
already  "  made  up,"  and  even  sometimes 
"  change "  in  their  vehicles  en  route,  it  does 
not  take  them  long  to  be  ready  for  their 
respective  "  turns  "  ;  and  their  punctuality  is 

To  sum  up,  it  may  in  common  fairness  be 
said  that  without  its  Palaces  of  Variety  and 
its  Music-Halls  Living  London  would  only  be 
half  alive. 



ATTACKED    BY    T«0. 



IF  you  will  take  a  walk — it  will  be  a  pretty- 
long  one — round  the  inner  circle  of 
London,  and  keep  your  eyes  open,  you 
will  see  many  interesting  things.  And,  if 
your  eyes  are  open  for  human  character 
rather  than  for  buildings  or  historical 
associations,  there  is  one  type  that  will 
probably  remain  as  a  lasting  impression. 
Start  from  the  Elephant  and  Castle,  and 
work  westward  through  Lambeth,  cross  the 
river  to  Chelsea,  fetch  Netting  Hill  in  the 
circuit  round  by  the  Euston  Road  and 
Pentonville,  and  then  take  Bethnal  Green 
on  your  way  down  to  the  Commercial  Road, 
and  back  again  across  the  Tower  Bridge  for 
a  glance  at  the  Old  Kent  Road  and  Wal- 
worth and  the  Borough. 

Whatever  else  you  fail  to  notice  on 
that  walk,  you  will  scarcely  fail  to  notice 
this :  the  persistence  of  a  particular  type 
of  boy.  He  is  somewhere  between  fourteen 
and  nineteen  years  of  age,  but  he  is  under- 
sized and  underfed.  You  will  find  him 
selling  newspapers,  or  sitting  on  the  tail  of 
a  van,  or  loafing  among  the  cabs  at  a  stand  ; 

you  will  find  him  playing  pitch-and-toss, 
with  a  sentry  on  the  look  out  for  prying 
policemen,  on  any  convenient  bit  of  waste 
ground ;  or  you  may  spy  him  at  a  game  of 
cards — more  especially  on  Sunday — on  a 
deserted  barge  in  the  Pool.  But  you  will 
not  find  him  among  the  crowds  that  come 
at  twelve  and  six  o'clock  out  of  the  factories, 
or  filter  at  odd  hours  from  the  big  printing 
establishments.  The  boy  of  this  special  type 
which  3'ou  cannot  fail  to  notice  has  no  fixed 
purpose  or  permanent  employment,  and  he 
shows  it  in  his  face.  He  has  found  no  place 
in  the  orderly  evolution  of  society.  He  is 
a  member  of  his  Majesty's  Opposition — the 
permanent  Opposition  to  law  and  order 
which  every  big  city  develops. 

Before  you  cross  the  river  again  on  your 
return  journey,  look  a  little  closer.  It  is 
Saturday  night,  when  half  London  is  at 
leisure,  and  the  other  half  ministering  to  its 
demand  for  "  bread  and  games."  The  man 
who  keeps  the  big  cofiee-stall  near  the  end 
of  the  bridge  is  making  ready  for  his 
customers  ;    and  the   policeman  who   stands 



hard  by  stamps  his  feet  to  keep  them  warm. 
He  is  not  permitted  to  take  a  walk,  for  it 
is  his  business  to  see  that  the  disorder  about 
the  coffee-stall  does  not  pass  reasonable 
limits.  But  things  are  quiet  enough  at 
present,  and    the    man    in   a   reefer    jacket, 

shoulders  slightly  hunched  and  elbows  close 
to  the  side,  which  marks  the  London  street 
boy.  The  policeman  at  the  coffee-stall  looks 
knowingly  at  them  as  they  pass.  He  knows 
well  enough  that  the  belt  which  this  boy  is 
carefully    tightening    serves    other    purposes 


bowler  hat,  and  thick  boots,  who  ostentatiously 
ignores  the  policeman,  is  quite  conspicuously 
a  plain  clothes  constable.  Now  and  then, 
among  the  strollers  and  the  women  returning 
from  market,  there  passes  along  a  boy — 
sometimes  two  or  three  together — walking 
swiftly  and  with  evident  purpose.  They 
are  not  nicely  dressed ;  though  the  night 
is  cold  there  is  not  an  overcoat  among 
them  ;  but  their  jackets  are  buttoned  tight, 
neckcloths  supply  the  place  of  collars,  and 
they   walk    with    the    curious     light     tread, 

than  that  of  dress  ;  he  knows  that  the 
unusual  stiffness  of  that  boy's  arm  is 
probably  due  to  the  presence  of  an  iron 
bar  up  the  sleeve.  But  there  is  no  law 
which  compels  the  wearing  of  braces  instead 
of  belts,  and  the  policeman,  from  experience 
of  his  own,  deduces  the  task  which  lies  before 
some  of  his  colleagues  across  the  river. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bridge  these 
furtive  figures  scatter  through  the  streets  to 
left  and  right ;  for  they  are  moving  to  an 
attack   on    Pentonville,   all    directed   by  one 




mastermind.  These  a  broken  whip. 
are  the  boys  from 
the  Borough  who 
have  developed  a 
feud  with  the  boys 
of  Pentonville,  and 
their  leader,  a  lad 
of  seventeen,  with  a 
chopper  in  his  breast  pocket  and  some  notion 
of  tactics  in  his  head,  has  foreseen  the 
position  of  the  enemy  and  designs 
to  place  him  between  two  fires.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  later  the  move- 
ment has  been  developed.  The 
Pentonville  boys  have  been  caught 
in  one  of  those  little  streets  off  the 
Goswell  Road.  Belts  are  off,  and 
the  buckles  swinging ;  sleeves  lose 
their  stiffening  of  iron ;  here  and 
there  a  fortunate  boy  has  a  cheap 
pistol,  which  startles  quiet  citizens 
and  occasionally  kills  them.  The 
fighting  is  independent  of  the  Geneva 
Convention  ;  there  are  no  rules,  only 
a  general  desire,  born  of  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  to  get  at  once 
to  close  quarters,  for  fist  and  muscle 
are  less  deadly  than  buckle  and  bar 
and  pistol.  Then  come  the  police — 
if  there  are  enough  within  earshot. 
But  that  is  generally  after  the  fight 
is  decided,  and  only  the  wounded 
appear  next  morning  at  the  police- 
court  and  give  texts  for  letters  to 
the  papers.  The  rest  scatter  and  run,  to 
gather  again  at  the  river.  And  if  you  are 
at  the  aforesaid  coffee-stall  at  one  in  the 
morning  you  may  see  and  hear  the  whoop- 
ing victors  wheeling  back  the  disabled  leader 
on  a  barrow — doubtless  borrowed. 

That  is  a  typical  instance  of  the  feuds 
which  rage  between  the  street  boys  of  the 
various  London  districts.  In  this  case  the 
cause  of  war  was  the  oldest  in  the  world, 
a  Borough  Helen  abstracted  by  a  Pentonville 
Paris.  But  these  m.ysterious  feuds  exist,  and 
are  fought  out,  between  many  London 
districts,  and  there  are  times  when  a  Lisson 





Grove  boy  would  go  east  of  Tottenham 
Court  Road  at  his  peril.  All  round  London 
these  gangs  are  ready  for  provocation.  The 
organisation  is  loose,  and  depends  mainly 
on  some  masterful  spirit  of  lawlessness  in 
direct  succession  to  the  original  Patrick 
Hooligan,  of  Lambeth.  But  whether  at 
Bethnal  Green  or  Wandsworth,  Pentonville 
or  Fulham,  so  soon  as  the  King  of  Misrule 
arises  the  ground  of  quarrel  is  assured. 

Sometimes  the  leader  of  a  gang  develops 
qualities  of  organisation  and  command  which 
inspire  respect  among  the  police,  who  know 
quite  well  that  the  Hooligan  is  always  on 
the  verge  of  crime,  and  often  topples  over. 
Such  was  the  head  of  a  gang  which 
terrorised  Lambeth.  He  was  only 
about  seventeen  years  of  age,  but  he 
had  had  a  thoroughly  good  criminal 
education,  and,  while  he  had  effected 
a  burglary  or  two,  picked  up  his 
living  mainly  by  petty  thieving.  But 
he  had  acquired  a  remarkable  in- 
fluence over  the  boys  of  Lambeth. 
He  made  it  a  point  of  honour  for 
every  boy  who  aspired  to  member- 
ship of  his  gang  to  show  a  shattered 
window,  a  smashed  door,  or  a  broken 
head — the  broken  head  opened  the 
way,  as  it  were,  to  a  commission  in 
the  gang.  He  had  no  settled  resi- 
dence ;  that  were  unadvisable  ;  but 
the  boys  knew  where  to  find  him 
and  ask  for  their  orders  for  the  day. 
And  he  collected  about  him  as  enter- 
prising and  capable  a  horde  of  young 
ruffians  as  you  could  wish  to  avoid 
on  a  winter's  evening. 

For  this  lawlessness  inevitably  leads 
to  crime.  Street  fighting  is  fun  ;  but  why 
should  not  the  lessons  it  teaches  be  turned 

to  profit  ?  I-'rom 
cracking  heads  for 
love  to  bashing 
"  toffs  "  for  gain  is  a 
short  step,  and  the 
boy  who  has  served 
his  apprenticeship  in 
a  gang — such  as  that 





of  Lambeth — is  quite  willing  and  able  to 
commit  an  unprovoked  assault  on  another's 
enemy  for  half-a-crown  down  and  another 
half-a-crown  when  the  job  is  done.  And  we 
often  read  the  result  in  the  "  police  intelli- 
gence" without  a  thought  of  the  power  of 
the  capitalist  who  has  five  shillings  and  an 
enemy.  Nor  is  the  step  from  street  fighting 
to  highway  robbery  much  longer.  Imagine 
a  couple  of  boys,  brought  up  to  the  street 
fighting  in  which  there  are  no  rules,  with  no 
fear  of  God,  man,  or  constable  before  their 
eyes,  and  with  no  money  in  their  pockets — 
imagine  them  face  to  face  with  a  lonely 
wayfarer  in  evening  dress,  carrying  presum- 
ably a  watch  and  a  sovereign  purse.  It  is 
the  simplest  thing  in  the  world.  One  boy 
whips  the  overcoat  back  and  imprisons  the 
victim's  arms  ;  the  other  goes  through  the 
pockets.  The  work  of  a  moment,  and  so 
easy !  No  wonder  the  Hooligan  turns  his 
sport  to  account !  The  sandbag,  too,  is 
handy.  It  is  an  American  importation,  and 
has  made  some  reputation  in  New  York. 
Unlike  the  bludgeon,  it  leaves  no  visible 
mark ;  unlike  the  cheap  pistol,  it  makes  no 
noise.  It  is  easily  hidden  up  the  sleeve 
till  required  ;  and  a  well-directed  crack  over 
the  head  with  a  sandbag — especially  if  the 
sand  has  been  damped  —  will  stun  the 
strongest  man  for  several  .minutes.  Not 
only  gain,  but  also  revenge,  is  a  motive  for 
the  Hooligan  assault,  and  the  existence  of 
a  gang  which  had  not  been  suspected  was 
proved  by  the  following  letter  which — 
marked  "  urgent " — turned  up  beneath  the 
nose  of  an  editor  of  a  morning  paper  : — 

'  Sir, — For  your 

■  cheek  in  put   one  of  our 

gang  away  we  have  Past  a  Rule  that  we  will  have 
your  Life  you  will  not  know  when  we  will  be  in 
your  Liver  tomorrow  Saturday." 

This  note,  grubby  from  the  hand  that 
delivered  it,  was  signed  by  the  name  of 
the  boy  who  was  "  Secterary  "  to  the  Cam- 
berwell  gang.  The  editor  is  still  alive.  But 
shortly  afterwards,  in  the  small  hours  of  the 
morning,  one  of  the  compositors  was  set 
upon  and  nearly  killed  by  a  gang  of  boys 
who  caught  him  at  the  southern  end  of 
Blackfriars  Bridge. 

The  Hooligan  is  a  worshipper  of  muscle, 
quite   apart    from   criminal   application,  and 

to  him  the  latest  hero  of  the  ring  is  a  god. 
His  saints  are  the  wearers  of  the  gloves  in 
those  obscure  boxing  contests  which  take 
place,  mostly  on  Saturday  night,  in  all 
kinds  of  dim  holes  and  corners  of  London, 
where  if  you  wear  a  collar  you  are  assumed 
to  be  a  detective.  There  is  one  of  these 
places  tucked  away  under  a  railway  arch 
in  a  certain  dark  street  off  Lambeth  Walk. 
You  enter  through  a  sort  of  hole  in  a  big 
gateway,  and  after  stumbling  forward  tumble 
into  a  square  room,  lighted  by  a  flaring 
gas-jet  swung  from  the  roof  Space  is 
limited,  and  you  sit  close  packed  around 
the  square — which  is  called  a  ring.  Row 
upon  row  of  eager  faces  ;  eyes  fixed  on  the 
proprietor,  in  whose  breast  is  locked  the 
secret  of  the  next  fight.  The  lowest  row 
is  composed  of  the  youngest — those  who 
came  first.  Above  are  men  who  have  fought 
their  fights  and  apparently  lost  them. 
Highest  of  all  appear  the  cap  of  an 
inspector  of  police  and  the  helmet  of  a 
constable,  for  we  are  within  the  rules. 
The  boys  step  into  the  ring ;  their  names 
are  announced — not  their  real  names,  for 
the  ring's  traditions  are  as  insistent  as 
those  of  the  stage,  and  with  better  reason. 
But  the  inspector,  cocking  an  eye  at  the 
boy  who  turns  out  in  fighting  tights  with 
a  torso  as  clean  and  bright  as  a  new  pin, 
recognises  the  boy  he  knows  as  a  grimy, 
grubby  loafer  in  the  street.  Absolute  clean- 
liness and  neatness  of  attire  are  a  point  of 
honour  in  the  obscurest  boxing  saloon,  and 
that  is  something  in   its  favour. 

It  is  a  disillusion  to  see  these  boys,  so 
lithe  and  clean  in  their  fighting  trim,  huddle 
on  their  trousers  and  coat — they  do  it  in 
a  corner  raked  by  the  eyes  of  the  audience 
— tie  the  wisp  of  cloth  round  their  necks, 
and  revert  to  the  slavery  of  their  usual 
habit.  But  the  most  remarkable  feature  of 
this  saloon — and  of  others  of  its  kind — is 
the  expectant  row  of  juniors,  who  got  the 
front  places  by  waiting.  At  the  least  hint 
of  a  hitch,  if  an  expected  combatant  delays 
a  moment  in  facing  his  antagonist,  half-a- 
dozen  coats  are  off,  half-a-dozen  shirts  are 
pulled  over  head,  and  half-a-dozen  clean, 
trained,  eager  boys  are  calling  out  "  I'll  tike 
'im  on."  For  these  boys  who  sit  patiently 
night   by  night    are   waiting  to   get  a   foot 




on  the  first  rung  of  Fame's  ladder,  and  are 
not  going  to  miss  a  chance.  Some  day,  if 
luck  is  theirs,  they  will  box  at  "Wonderland" 
in  the  Whitechapel  Road,  where  the  audience 
is  numbered  by  hundreds  and  wears  collars  ; 
and  if  the  luck  holds  at  the  National 
Sporting  Club,  where  the  audience  wears 
evening  dress. 

To  catch  the  street  boy  in  his  softer  mood 
you    need   not  wait    for  a  Bank   Holiday  or 
travel  so   far    as    Hamp.stead,    much    less    to 

Epping  Forest.  On  Saturday  evenings  they 
stand  in  long  lines  at  the  gallery  doors  of 
the  less  fashionable  theatres  and  music-halls, 
having  somehow  acquired  the  price  of  two 
seats  apiece.  For  every  boy  who  has  started 
life  on  his  own  account  considers  it  a  point 
of  honour  to  possess  a  girl.  The  girls  who 
stand  at  the  gallery  door  waiting  for  the 
treat  which  they  demand  of  their  cavaliers 
are  neither  particularly  clean  and  tidy  nor 
very  picturesque.     They  wear  the  clothes  in 




which  they  work  all  the  week  at  cardboard- 
box  making,  jam  packing,  match  making, 
and  so  on — with  the  addition  of  the  feathered 
hat  which  is  the  glory  of  a  woman  in  this 
rank  of  life.  But,  on  the  whole,  they  are 
reasonably  good.  And  it  is  a  curious  fact 
that  the  Hooligan  boy  seldom  finds  an  ally 
in  his  girl  when  he  wants  to  be  flagrantly 
dishonest.  She  does  not  ask  too  many 
questions — she  does  not,  for  instance, 
inquire  where  he  got  the  money  to  pay 
for  a  hot  supper  after  the  entertainment ; 
but  she  would  prefer  to  think  that  her 
boy  is  "  in  work "  and  "  earning  good 
money,"  and  she  is  perfectly  capable  of 
maintaining  that  proposition — -with  tooth 
and  claw,  if  need  be — against  any  other 
lady  who  presumes  to  doubt   it. 

The  street  boy  of  the  type  I  have  tried 
to  describe  is  full  of  a  certain  spasmodic 
nervous  energy,  but  he  has  neither  ballast 
nor  settled  purpose  in  life  beyond  the  present 
day.  Long  ago  the  Ragged  School  Union 
set  to  work  to  catch  this  continual  growth 
of  possible  criminals  and  train  it  aright ; 
and  to-day  the  energetic  Secretary  from 
the  centre  influences  many  institutions  and 
workers.  Our  illustrations  suggest  some  of 
the  difficulties  encountered  in  Hoxton  by 
a  devoted  teacher  who  to  this  day  is  engaged 
in    making   silk    purses  out   of  unpromising 

material,  with  no  little  success.  The  waist- 
belt  near  the  top  of  page  231,  for  example,  was 
laid  about  the  teacher's  head  by  a  voluntary 
scholar  who  had  changed  his  mind  about  the 
charm  of  education.  The  loaded  stick  at 
the  foot  of  the  same  page  is  a  relic  of  a 
great  street  fight  outside  the  school  ;  the 
missing  piece  was  broken  off  over  a  victim's 
head.  But  perhaps  the  quaintest  of  this 
little  collection  is  the  crucifix.  It  is  the 
offering  of  an  apostate  of  eleven.  He  had 
joined  a  High  Church  club.  But  the  world 
called  him  ;  he  enlisted  under  the  leader  of 
the  Hoxton  gang  at  the  time,  and,  having 
chosen  the  life  of  disorder,  presented  his 
teacher  with  the  symbol  which  had  ceased 
to  symbolise. 

A  further  impetus  to  the  movement  started 
by  the  Ragged  School  Union  was  given  by 
the  institution  of  Toynbee  Hall,  in  memory 
of  Arnold  Toynbee,  of  Balliol.  The  public 
schools  and  the  universities  caught  up  the 
idea  of  "  boys'  clubs  "  which  should  be 
impregnated  with  something  of  the  public- 
school  spirit.  At  present  East,  South-East, 
and  North-East  London  are  the  main  seats 
of  these  settlements,  while  London  is  breed- 
ing boys  from  Wimbledon  to  Leytonstone 
whom  careless  parents  throw  upon  the  streets 
so  .soon  as  they  can  run  alone.  Oxford 
House    is    a   notable    centre.      It    owes   its 



success  to  Dr.  Ingram,  who  before  becoming 
Bishop  of  London  was  Bishop  of  Stepney. 
Go  down  to  Bethnal  Green — on  a  Saturday 
evening  for  choice — and  at  Oxford  House 
you  will  find  an  interesting  dining-hall  and 
common-room.  They  are  all  of  them  young 
graduates.  Some  are  barristers  or  journalists 
at  work  all  day  at  their  own  affairs  ;  others 
are  intending  clergymen  who  wish  to  take 
a  close  look  at  the  souls  they  shall  save. 
A  hurried  meal,  a  snatched  smoke,  and  they 
scatter  to  the  clubs  where  they  have  to  take 

We  will  go  to  one,  typical  of  many,  within 
a  short  walk  of  Oxford  House.  It  is  in  a 
quiet  street,  but  near  the  door  boys  with 
knitted  brows  are  hanging  about.  The 
entrance  fee  is  sixpence  ;  and  just  inside  a 
genial  official  is  receiving  this  sum — usually 
in  pennies — from  a  new  member.  We  go 
upstairs,  and  find  a  room  full  of  boys  playing 
billiards  and  bagatelle.  There  is  an  evident 
effort  for  cleanliness  and  neatness  in  attire. 
One  lad  with  a  note -book  marks  down 
the  games  and  takes  the  money ;  for  the 
club  is  run,  under  supervision,  by  the  mem- 
bers, and  public  spirit  is  strong  against 
peculation  or  disorder.     We  go    further,  led 

by  the  sound  of  tramping  feet,  and  find  the 
newest  recruits  to  the  cadet  corps  at  their 
drill.  One  of  them,  in  an  interval,  tells  you 
he  has  just  joined  the  football  club,  having 
secured  an  income  of  a  halfpenny  a  week. 
He  is  fifteen,  he  says.  He  would  pass  for 
twelve  on  a  railway,  and  for  eleven  in  an 
Eton  preparatory  school  ;  the  London 
street  boy  is  terribly  undersized.  In  the 
basement  we  reach  the  theatre,  where  the 
minstrels  of  the  club  perform ;  here,  too, 
we  find  a  boy  solemnly  punching  the  ball 
— for  as  boys  will  fight  anyhow,  they  may 
as  well  join  the  club  and  learn  to  box  at 
an  initial  and  final  outlay  of  one  shilling, 
under  the  sanction  of  the  Church  and  the 
Queensberry  rules.  But  the  boy  who  joins 
the  Webbe  Institute  may  get  a  great  deal 
at  cost  price.  He  may  even  get  a  week 
in  a  seaside  camp  every  August.  This  is 
only  one  of  the  clubs  which  are  scattered 
about  the  confines  of  the  inner  circle.  And 
music,  too !  The  drums  and  fifes  cease  for 
a  minute,  and  you  see  the  contingent  of 
cadets  join  the  main  body  and  march  off  to 
the  evening  service  at  St.  Matthew's  Church, 
clean,  erect,  and  enlisted  from  the  forces  of 
disorder  on  the  side  of  law  and  right 






By  J.  C.   WOOLLAN. 



"OTEL  London  is  great 
and  growing.  Perhaps 
no  feature  of  London 
life  was  more  conspicuous 
for  a  smart  advance  in  the 
closing  years  of  the  last  cen- 
tury and  the  opening  of  the 
new  than  hotel  accommoda- 
tion of  every  variety,  and 
what  might  be  called  the 
hotel  habit  —  the  living  in 
hotels  of  even  Londoners 
themselves.  There  was  a 
time,  not  so  very  long  ago, 
when  London  had  to  bear 
the  reproach  of  giving  less 
satisfaction  in  the  hotel  way  to  the  visitor 
than  almost  any  other  great  city.  Even 
yet  the  foreigner  has  his  complaints  to 
make,  especially  when  he  comes  to  settle 
the  bill,  but  in  a  general  way  the  Metropolis 
has  responded  excellently  to  an  increasing 
demand  To-day  she  can  fling  at  the  cities 
of  the  European  and  American  continents 
a   boast   that   she  will   name  twenty  of  her 

hotels,  and  challenge  each  of  her  rivals  to 
produce  twenty  that  are  better,  or  even  as 

You  may  never  have  reflected,  and  per- 
chance may  not  have  had  the  materials  for 
reflection,  upon  how  vast  and  of  what  infinite 
variety  is  the  Hotel  London  of  to-day.  Let 
us  consider  the  first  of  the  two  points  just 
named,  and  estimate  in  some  small  way 
the  dimensions  of  Hotel-land  within  the 
confines  of  the  capital. 

The  most  careful  of  calculations  brings  one 
to  the  safe  conclusion  that  there  are  daily 
no  fewer  than  120,000  visitors  in  the  Metro- 
polis. Not  all  of  these  stay  over  a  single 
night,  and  of  those  who  do  a  fair  proportion 
welcome  the  hospitality  of  friends  in  private 
houses.  Yet,  when  all  deductions  have  been 
made  and  we  have  fined  the  figures  down  to  of  the  net  hotel  and  boarding-house 
population,  it  is  discovered  that  there  are,  on 
an  average,  between  50,000  and  60,000  people 
who  daily  come  within  this  category.  Of  this 
great  number  it  is  reckoned  that  the  recog- 
nised hotels,  licensed  and  of  varying  preten- 



sions,  are  capable  of  accommodating  just  about 
half,  and  the  boarding-houses  and  private 
hotels  are  well  able  to  account  for  the  rest, 
■existing  as  they  do  in  their  thousands.  It 
has  been  found  in  actual  practice  that  over 
8,000  guests  have  slept  in  twenty  of  the  chief 
hotels  on  busy  nights  of  the  season.  One 
single  hotel  has  about  1,000  bedrooms,  and 
there  are  five  others  with  500  or  more.  A 
dozen  of  the  chief  hotels  make  up  an 
aggregate  of  only  a  few  short  of  6,000 
bedrooms,  a  proportion  of  which  contain  a 
couple  of  beds,  so  that  in  the  whole  these 
sleeping  apartments  will  very  likely  accom- 
modate 12,000  people — the  population  of  a 
small  town.  And  the  directory  gives  you 
the  names  of  over  300  big  licensed  hotels 
in  London. 

The  story  of  the  growth  of  Hotel  London 
to  these  vast  proportions  is  tinged  with  not  a 
little  of  romance.  Once  upon  a  time  there 
was  an  enterprising  servant  in  a  West-End 
mansion,  which  he  forsook  in  order  that 
he  might  start  a  boarding-house.  The  latter 
in  due  course  developed  into  an  hotel,  and 
the  hotel  so  thrived 
and  grew  that  to-day 
it  is  one  of  the  biggest 
in  the  Metropolis, 
whilst  the  quondam 
servant,  for  his  part, 
is  a  rich  country 
gentleman  with  large 
lands.  He  is  not 
alone  in  his  great 
success.  And  on  the 
other  hand,  showing 
again  the  vast  out- 
come of  the  enter- 
prise of  the  pioneers 
in  the  making  of 
modern  Hotel  Lon- 
don, it  may  be  cited 
that  a  score  of  the 
chief  hotels  among 
them  represent  a 
capital  of  about  eight 
millions  of  money, 
and  even  the  little 
group  of  Gordon 
Hotels  are  capable  of 
accounting  for  three 
and  a-half  millions. 

But  it  is  not  our  purpose  to  weaty  with 
statistics,  though  such  few  as  are  in  the 
foregoing  lines  will  be  pardoned  for  the  tale 
of  immensity  which  they  alone  can  tell.  We 
will  discover  now  the  variety  of  our  Hotel 
London,  and  the  even  greater  variety  of  its 
patrons.  Each  hotel  is  not  for  every  patron. 
The  Americans  have  claimed  the  biggest;  and 
have,  indeed,  made  the  success  of  some  of 
them.  The  Germans  preponderate  at  others, 
and  there  is  another  where  we  may  find 
a  regular  potpourri  of  highly  respectable 
foreigners  of  different  nationalities.  Such  is 
De  Keyser's  Royal,  at  the  eastern  extremity 
of  the  Victoria  Embankment.  Do  not  even 
the  names  of  the  hotels  of  the  west  tell  their 
own  little  tales  of  foreign  individuality  and  of 
cosmopolitanism  ?  There  are  the  Hotel  Con- 
tinental and  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe  with 
expansive  titles ;  but  there  are  so  many 
others,  many  of  which  you  may  not  know, 
but  all  by  their  names  alone  making  a  mute 
and  often  successful  appeal  to  particular 

However,  with  this  brief  general  survey,  let 




us  particularise.  With  the  duty  we  owe  to 
rank  let  us  return  to  the  kings  and  nobles, 
and  see  where  they  most  do  congregate. 

You  may  find  their  majesties  at  two  or 
three  places  in  the  fashionable  west.  Some 
time  or  other  they  are  certain  to  be  at  the 
pre-eminently  aristocratic  Claridge's,  in  Brook 
Street,  away  from  all  the  din  and  bustle,  and 
in  an  atmosphere  which  is  positively  scented 
with  exclusiveness  and  distinction.  There 
are  not  many  hotels  in  the  world  which  have 
the  e.xtremely  restrictive  peculiarity  of 
Claridge's.  This  is  no  place  for  the  mere 
man  of  money,  who  is  nothing  more  than 
that — with  not  even  a  social  aim.  Whatever 
king  he  be,  he  may  live  here  and  move  about 
in  no  disguise  and  with  perfect  freedom  from 
any  vulgar  gaze.  For  here,  tenanting  the 
grand  and  costly  suites  of  rooms,  are  men  and 
women  who  are  numbered  amongst  the  fore- 
most of  their  respective  lands,  men  and 
women  who  would  make  up  for  this  king  a 
court  of  which  he  might  well  be  proud.  There 
is  an  English  duke,  a  Spanish  princess,  a 
Russian  grand  duke,  a  variety  of  counts, 
several  leaders  of  London  society,  and, 
generally,  a  collection  of  people  in  whose 
veins  runs  the  best  blue  blood  of  every  nation. 
Wealth,  rank,  and  power  are  represented. 
On  a  winter's  evening,  as  we  pass  along  the 
street,  a  carriage  with  a  fresh  arrival  rattles 
up  to  the  entrance,  and  with  a  passing  fancy 
that  we  will  stake  the  reputation  of  Claridge's, 
as  it  were,  on  this  one  haphazard  throw,  we 
pause  a  moment  to  discover  the  new  comer. 
Claridge's  wins.  The  American  Ambassador 
has  just  arrived  from  Washington,  and  has 
driven  straight  to  Claridge's,  where  he  will  stay 
for  a  few  weeks.  Another  time  an  Oriental 
potentate  comes  driving  up,  and  with  some 
form  and  ceremony  and  his  own  native  ser- 
vant in  attendance  he  passes  within. 

Yet  even  Claridge's  has  not  a  monopoly  of 
the  greatest.  You  may  find  royalty  and 
nobles  at  the  Albemarle,  in  Piccadilly,  or 
at  Brown's,  in  Dover  Street,  or  at  the  Lang- 
ham,  in  Langham  Place,  upon  which  King 
Edward,  when  Prince  of  Wales,  set  the  aris- 
tocratic stamp  by  opening.  The  grand  and 
highly  fashionable  Carlton  is,  again,  one  of  the 
most  likely  places  in  London  for  the  foreign 
potentate  or  the  social  star  of  home  to  be 
temporarily  housed  in,  e.specially  if  there  is  a 

desire  to  be,  in  the  colloquial  term,  "  in  the 
thick  of  it."  In  the  Palm  Court  here  one 
may  lounge  to  perfection  amongst  the  best- 
known  people  of  at  least  two  continents. 
Different  celebrities,  too,  have  their  own  con- 
servative tastes  and  their  own  hotels  ;  and 
there  are  old-fashioned  country  families,  most 
highly  respectable,  who  would  prefer  to  pay 
Claridge's  and  Carlton  prices  at  hostelries 
of  far  less  renown  but  of  guaranteed 
"  tone." 

To  leave  the  rank  and  fashion  pure,  and 
seek  the  greater  rendezvous  of  wealth  and 
lu.xury  we  must  proceed  a  trifle  eastward  and 
southward,  dip  down  to  Trafalgar  Square  and 
Northumberland  Avenue,  and  walk  a  few 
score  paces  along  the  Strand.  In  the  main- 
tenance of  such  hotel  luxury  as  we  are  speak- 
ing of  the  American  contribution  pre- 
ponderates. Our  cousins  of  the  States  are  a 
very  notable  factor  indeed  of  Hotel  London. 
At  the  opening  of  the  bright  summer 
season  they  arrive  with  their  trunks  and  their 
money  in  thousands,  till  the  Transatlantic 
accent  hums  in  the  region  to  which  we  have 
just  passed.  Always  for  the  biggest,  their 
first  thought  is  for  the  Cecil ;  and  so  pass  into 
the  courtyard  any  fine  morning  in  the  season, 
and  walk  up  to  the  tables  and  chairs  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps,  where  the  loungers  recline 
preparatory  to  their  day's  assault  upon  the 
lions  of  London,  and  you  will  not  need  to 
search  for  the  man  with  the  American  voice, 
or  for  the  girl  with  American  smartness. 
They  are  everywhere — here  outside,  inside, 
there  still  dallying  at  the  breakfast  table, 
penning  picture  postcards  in  the  writing- 
room,  and — just  a  few  thirsty  souls  are  these 
— sipping  iced  concoctions  downstairs  at  the 
American  bar.  There  is  special  accommoda- 
tion for  the  American,  even  to  the  chef. 
This  middle-aged  man,  with  the  kindly  face 
and  the  grey  moustache,  stepping  into  a 
hansom  is  a  great  American  railroad  king 
who  means  to  revolutionise  railway  London  ; 
the  slight  dark  figure  in  the  porch  is  that 
of  a  man  who  is  an  engineer  of  monopolies 
and  trusts.  These  are  men  who  are  feared. 
The  richly-apparelled  lady  who  is  sweeping 
along  a  corridor  is  an  American  society 
woman  who  recently  gave  a  dinner  in  New 
York  which   cost  twenty  pounds  a  head. 

You  will   discover  also  a  great  American 







I.    PORTER.      II.   THE   PALM   COURT   (CARLTON    HOTEL).        III.    SMOKING   ROOM    (GRAND   HOTEL). 



contingent,  as  well  as  a  fine  smattering  of 
other  nationalities,  at  the  Metropole,  the 
Victoria,  and  the  Grand — all  Gordons,  all  in 
Northumberland  Avenue,  and  all  palatial  and 
luxurious.  The  great  First  Avenue  in  Hol- 
born  and  the  Grosvenor  at  Victoria  are  also 
Gordons.  Well-to-do  Frenchmen,  well-to-do 
Germans,  and  many  besides  are  here  in 
numbers ;  but  then,  as  has  been  said, 
De  Keyser's  Roj'al,  on  the  Embankment,  is 
the  particular  resort  of  the  Continental 
visitor.  Germans  are  here  in  force,  and  if  you 
move  still  more  eastward  and  come  to  Fins- 
bury  Square  you  will  find  a  further  batch  of 
hotels  with  great  German  reputations.  Klein's 
and  Seyd's  are  in  the  Square,  and  Buecker's 
is  also  there.  In  Finsbury  Square,  where 
beef  is  "bif,"  the  sons  of  the  Fatherland 
may  live  precisely  after  the  manner  of  the 
German  fighting  cock. 

Other  nationalities,  other  hotels  ;  and  many 
more,  especially  in  the  east,  could  be  added 
to  this  already  long  list.  In  these  followings 
of  the  foreigner  we  are  neglecting  the  strangers 
of  our   own    country    who    are    temporarily 

within    the   hospitable   gates   of  the   Metro- 

Whence   comes  the  provincial  ?     We  dis- 
cover that  he  comes  very  largely  vik  the  termini 
at  Euston,  St.  Pancras,  and  King's  Cross,  and 
here    we    find    the   great    railway   companies 
have     raised     palaces      for     his     temporary 
residence.     The    railway  hotel    is   essentially 
the  hotel  for  the  busy  man  who  must  live  in 
style  and  comfort,  but  who  is  always  catching 
express  trains,  or  who  in  catching  but  a  few 
must  make  a  quick  certainty  of  them.     Of 
course,  such  hotels  as  the  Midland  Grand — 
truly    grand — the    Euston,    and    the    Great 
Central    are    for    other    people    besides — for 
families  and  for  pleasure  folk  as  well.     All 
sorts  and    conditions  of  British    people,  but 
especially  business  people,  are  here.       One  of 
the  greatest  financiers  of  modern   times  has 
worked  his  deals  from  a  suite  of  rooms  in  the 
Midland   Grand,  and   such   is  high   commer- 
cial   loyalty   that    in    another    suite    may  be 
found  a  celebrated  director  of  the  Midland 
Railway  itself     At  Charing  Cross  Station  is 
another  railway  hotel,  and  at  Cannon  Street,. 
in  the  heart  of  the  City,  one  more— 
which  is    perhaps    the    most  business- 
ike  of  all,  for   a  long  programme  of 
big    company    meetings    is    negotiated 
here   every    day.      Shareholders   have 




rejoiced  and 
sorrowed,  con- 
gratulated and 
stormed,  in  the 
Cannon  Street 
Hotel  as  in  no 
other.  Then  there 
is  the  more  purely 
hostelry,  of  which 
the  Manchester, 
in  Aldersgate 
Street,  the  Salis- 
bury, off  Fleet 
Street,  and  An- 
derton's,  in  the 
middle  of  news- 
paperdom,  are 
great  examples. 
You  may  witness 
a  busy  scene  at  the 
Manchester  in  the 
evening,  when  the 
commercial  travel- 
lers, their  City 
wanderings  over,  send  their  reports  and 
instructions  to  headquarters,  or,  as  they  call 
it,  "  write  up  the  mail." 

Forsaking  commerce,  we  will  seek  out 
the  hotels  of  the  studious,  and  we  shall  find 
them  in  Bloomsbury,  hard  by  the  British 
Museum,  busy  hive  of  brainworkers.  The 
Thackeray,  Kingsley,  and  Esmond  trade,  one 
might  almost  say,  upon  the  Museum  ;  even 
the  telegraphic  address  of  one  of  them  is 
"  Bookcraft."  These  three  are  temperance 
hotels;  so,  too,  are  Cranston's  Waverleys ; 
and,  in  passing,  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that 
London  accommodates  excellently  the  people 
who  prefer  the  teetotal  establishment.  Wild's, 
in  Ludgate  Hill,  and  the  Buckingham,  in  the 
Strand,  are  two  more  among  many. 

If  we  tried  we  could  not  before  leaving 
Bloomsbury  miss  the  magnificent  Russell, 
fashioned  on  the  Gordon  system,  and  bearing 
the  Frederick  name.  For  patrons  of  a 
different  character,  in  the  long  street 
arteries  which  feed  Bloomsbury  are  count- 
less private  hotels,  which  faithfully  serve 
a  mission  of  cheapness.  Mostly  they  are 
numbered,  but  some  of  them  take  names 
to  themselves ;  and,  being  bound  by  no 
traditions,  desiring  only  to  be  up  to  date, 

DINING    KOO.M    (OAK    SALO.N,    lIOTliL    .MiTKOPOLEJ. 

fearful  and  wonderful  specimens  of  hotel 
nomenclature  are  prepared  in  a  single  night. 
What  was  a  modest  title  at  eventide  glares 
forth  pretentiously  as  "  Hotel  Pretoria  "  next 
morning,  wars  and  patriotism  just  then 
making  the  blood  to  leap.  And  by  the 
same  token  when  there  was  a  scamper  for 
Alaskan  gold  fields  an  "  Hotel  Klondyke " 
came  topically  forward.  In  these  days,  from 
highest  to  lowest,  it  is  Hotel  this  and  Hotel 
that — a  la  mode  "  hotel  "  comes  first. 

Away  in  the  farther  West-End  are  many 
other  hotels  of  great  reputation.  Beginning 
at  Westminster,  there  are  the  cosy  St 
Ermin's,  the  Windsor,  and  the  Westminster 
Palace.  At  South.  Kensington  there  is 
Bailey's ;  overlooking  Rotten  Row  is  the 
Alexandra,  of  most  pretentious  appearance ; 
hard  by  is  the  Hyde  Park  Hotel,  carried 
on  in  conjunction  with  the  Carlton  Hotel  ; 
whilst  the  Buckingham  Palace,  the  Royal 
Palace,  the  De  Vere,  and  many  others  are  all 
institutions  of  the  Metropolis,  and  there  are 
others,  such  as  Morley's  in  Trafalgar  Square, 
the  Holborn  Viaduct  Hotel,  and  the  Queen's 
in  Leicester  Square,  which  a  London  visitor 
can  hardly  help  but  see. 

Of  the  oddities,  peculiarities,  individualities 



of  Hotel  London — ah !  they  are  so  man\',  too 
many  for  one  short  survey.  The  trades  and 
the  professions  have  their  own  hotels.  To 
take  two  wideh- different  e.xamples,  one  might 
point  out  that,  whilst  all  who  attended  the 
great  wool  sales  from  the  country  and  abroad 
would  staj'  at  the  Great  Eastern,  countr)' 
lawyers  and  clients  whose  business  is  at  the 
Law  Courts  would  favour  Anderton's  or  the 
Inns  of  Court,  which  vie  with  each  other 
in  proximity  to  the  great  headquarters  of 
Justice.  And  the  space  in  between  these  two 
could  be  well  filled.  Come  with  me  to  Covent 
Garden,  and  I  \\ill  show  )ou  a  big  hotel  with 
200  rooms  which  will  not  admit  ladies — it  is 
"  for  gentlemen  only."  There  is  another  not 
far  awa)-  \\hich  has  obtained  a  peculiar 
patronage  from  persons  arri\ing  in  London 
by  P.  and  O.  steamers,  who  know  nothing 
whatever  of  Hotel  London,  and  have  grate- 
fully accepted  a  hint  that  was  given  them. 
There  is  a  clerical  hotel  ;  ships'  captains 
have  their  own  in  dock-land  ;  there  is  a 
Jewish  hotel  ;  and  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Regent's  Park  there  is  even  one  which  is 
advertised   as   "  the    only    Spiritualist    hotel 

in  London."  After  that,  it  would  be  futile 
to  attempt  a  further  illustration  of  the 
possibilities  of  hotel  individualism  in  the 
great  Metropolis. 

We  will  go  back  to  the  Strand,  and  see  that 
each  street  as  it  runs  from  the  great  thorough- 
fare southwards  to  theThames  is  honeycombed 
with  hotels  of  different  sorts  and  sizes.  And 
in  perambulating  westwards  again  we  may 
this  time  note  the  Savoy,  with  its  abundance 
of  fair  fame,  which  we  could  on  our  last 
journey  hardly  couple  with  the  Cecil,  though 
they  adjoin.  The  Sa\oy  is  as  aesthetic  as  it 
is  big. 

Such  is  Hotel  London  in  all  its  magnitude 
and  with  all  its  wonders.  And  in  the 
enumeration  of  .so  many  wonders  we  dispel 
at  least  one.  There  is  such  a  \ariety  and 
such  a  choice  in  hotel  life  that  more  and 
more  are  Londoners  of  means  forsaking  their 
homes  and  living  only  in  hotels,  with  all  their 
careless  freedom. 

Lor  years  Hotel  London  has  been  passing 
through  an  interesting  process  of  evolution, 
and  the  end  of  the  process  will  not  be  in  the 
twentieth  century. 


243   ■ 

rhoto  :    H.  Moyu.   Putnty.  >.  H". 




THE  pleasures  and  sports  of  the  Thames 
are  principally  above  bridge ;  the 
business  part  lies  below.  Yet  let  none 
forget  that  there  is  plenty  of  pleasure  and 
sport  and  fun  to  be  obtained  below  bridge 
also,  and  found  at  Greenwich,  Gravesend, 
Southend,  Margate,  Ramsgate,  and  elsewhere. 
But,  even  to  start  for  these  places  beloved  of 
a  certain  portion  of  Living  London's  popula- 
tion— and  visited  often  enough  by  a  totally 
distinct  stratum  of  that  popu- 
lation, whose  cry,  as  a  rule, 
is  "  anything  for  a  change  " — 
one  sets  out  by  water  from 
above-bridge  :  i.e.  from  the  Old 
Swan  Pier.  Whenever  one 
does  so  in  the  summer  time, 
and  providing  the  weather  is 
fine,  the  cruise  is  certain  to  be 
an  amusing  as  well  as  an  en- 
joyable one.  There  is  always 
a  band  on  board  (harp,  cornet, 
and  flute),  refreshments  may 
be  obtained,  all  are  determined 
on  enjoying  themselves,  and 
lovers  are  abundant  and  shed 
a  rosy  glow  around.  In  the 
case  of  the  "  husbands'  boat " 
—  for   Margate   on   Saturdays 


— it  is  the  married  men,  hastening  to  join 
their  wives  until  Monday,  who  represent  the 
votaries  of  Hymen,  late  Cupid  ;  yet  they  too 
are  happy. 

But  we  will  turn  to  the  absolute  subject  of 
this  sketch,  the  pleasures  and  sports  of  the 
Thames.  , 

By  priority  of  age  comes  the  race  for 
Doggett's  Coat  and  Badge,  a  sum  of  money 
having  been  left  by  Thomas  Doggett,  a 
Drury  Lane  actor  of  the  early 
Georgian  period,  to  commem- 
orate the  accession  day  of  the 
first  Hanoverian  monarch,  i.e. 
August  1st,  1715.  This  fur- 
nishes a  waterman's  coat  and 
a  silver  badge — the  latter  as 
large  as  a  pie-dish  and  bearing 
the  white  horse  of  Hanover  on 
it  —  and  is  open  to  any  six 
young  Thames  watermen  who 
desire  to  compete,  the  course 
being  originally  from  the 
"  Swan  "  at  London  Bridge  to 
the  "  Swan "  at  CheLsea.  As 
the  event  hcis  existed  for  nearly 
two  hundred  years,  the  old 
actor's  loyalty  and  enthusiasm 
have  been  pretty  well  stamped 





into  the  minds  and  memories  of  several 
generations  of  Londoners.  The  ground,  or 
rather  water,  covered  by  this  course,  and  the 
shores  from  London  Bridge  to  Chelsea,  not 
only  comprise  almost  all  the  chief  historical 
portion  of  the  river  as  rejjards  sport  and 
pleasure,  but  also  the  grandeur  and  might 
and  power  of  the  greatest  city  in  the 
world.  And — which  should  give  us  further 
food  for  reflection — Father  Thames  is  still 
adding  to  our  history  while  even  now 
serving  the  purposes  of  recreation  and 

Lean  for  a  moment  over  Chelsea  Suspen- 
sion Bridge  on  a  summer  day  and  look 
around  and  below  you.  Passing  under  the 
bridge  is  a  steamer  on  its  way  to  Kew  and 
Richmond  and  Hampton  Court.  Here,  too, 
you  may  see,  especially  if  it  is  Saturday 
afternoon,  single,  double,  treble  sculling  boats 
with  young  maidens,  and,  of  course,  their 
swains,  prepared  for  an  outing,  or  jaunt — for 
a  Saturday  "  up  the  river."  You  may  ob- 
serve, also,  men  of  sterner  metal  and  inten- 
tions passing  beneath  you — brawny  and 
muscular  oarsmen  sculling  in  wager  boats, 
and  practising  for  some  race  the  stakes  of 
which  may  be  well  worth  winning — stakes 
that  may  enable  whosoever  gains  them  to  set 
up  in  business  as  a  boat-builder  and  a  man 
who  will  have  "  Boats  to  let,"  or  as  the  land- 
lord of  some  riverside  public-house,  which,  as 
every  riparian  resident  knows,  is  the  "  be  all 
and  end  all,"  in  the  majority  of  cases,  of 
the  professional  sculler's  existence. 

On  one  side  of  this  bridge  is  Chelsea 
Hospital,  where  once  stood,  close  by,  the 
celebrated  Ranelagh  Gardens  :  on  the  other 
is  Battersea  Park,  formed  out  of  what  was 
originally  a  marshy,  undrained  piece  of  sub- 
merged land.  Now  it  is  a  very  pretty  place, 
much  given  up  to  cyclists,  especially  beginners 
who  do  not  care  to  roam  too  far  afield  at 
first  or  to  encounter  the  dangers  of  street 

In  this  park,  especially  in  summer — since  it 
is  then  green  and  leafy  and  at  its  best — youths 
and  maidens  make  and  keep  their  rendezvous, 
as  they  have  always  done  and  always  will. 
The  nursemaid  loves  to  saunter  on  its  paths 
with  the  inevitable  perambulator,  whilst  the 
warriors  from  Chelsea  Barracks  across  the 
river  cast  admiring  glances  at  her.     Once,  in 

the  early  sixties,  the  West-End  terminus  of 
the  Brighton  line  was  near  here,  before  the 
railway  came  farther  into  town  and  before 
Victoria  terminus  and  the  railway  bridge 
were  built.  Beyond  this,  as  wc  proceed  up  the 
river,  there  is  nothing  much  to  call  for  .special 
remark  in  the  present  day  until  we  come  to 

Putney  is  the  metropolis  of  boating  men  ; 
and  on  its  embankment  are  the  boat- 
houses  of  the  Thames,  Vesta,  Lcander,  and 
London  Rowing  Clubs  —  world -renowned 
establishments,  if  not  for  their  own  celebrity, 
which  is  considerable,  then  because,,  it  is 
from  one  or  other  of  these  that  the  boats  of 
the  Oxford  Rowing  Club  and  the  Cambridge 
Rowing  Club  put  off  for  their  practice  daily 
during  the  fortnight  before  the  'Varsity  Race, 
and  also  on  the  momentous  morning  of  the  race. 
This  they  have  practically  done  since  the 
year  1849,  when,  in  consequence  of  there 
having  been  no  race  in  1847  or  1848,  two 
races  were  rowed  in  the  former  year,  while 
previous  to  1849,  with  one  solitary  excep- 
tion, the  race  was  rowed  from  Westminster 
to  Putney. 

We  witness  a  busy  scene  when  the  start 
for  the  great  race  takes  place  soon  after 
the  steamers  for  the  Press  and  the  Uni- 
versities arrive  from  London;  when  the 
river  is  cleared  for  what  the  reporters  call 
the  great  "  aquatic  contest,"  much  as  the 
Epsom  course  is  cleared  for  the  Derby,  and 
when  hansoms,  drags,  char-a-bancs  and 
omnibuses  line  the  esplanade,  as  they  line 
every  spot  where  vehicles  can  go.  The  ladies 
all  wear  favours  and  rosettes  of  their  favourite 
University,  or,  as  the  cynics  say,  of  which- 
ever blue  suits  their  complexions  and  toilettes 
the  better ;  and  it  has  been  whispered  that 
some  who  have  sported  the  losing  colours 
before  the  race  change  it  for  the  winning 
colour  afterwards.  This  is,  however,  probably 

Once  off  and  the  start  made,  horsemen  and 
light  vehicles,  such  as  hansoms,  tear  off  from 
the  starting-point,  make  a  dash  across  Barnes 
Common  to  the  "  White  Hart "  at  Barnes  or 
the  "  Ship "  at  Mortlake— the  huge  bend 
north  of  the  ri\er  favouring  the  short  cut — 
and  so  get  in  in  time  for  the  death,  or,  rather, 
the  finish :  the  result  being  made  known  by 
the  hoisting  of  the  winning  colour  above  the 



READY    KOR    A    ROW. 

losing  one  on  Barnes  Railway  Bridge,  after 
which  a  scene  of  wild  excitement  takes  place. 
Old  Blues — and  young  ones,  too — clergymen 
from  distant  parishes  and  lawyers  from  town 
shake  hands  and  nod  pleasantly  to  each 
other  if  their  'Varsity  has  won,  while  those 
belonging  to  the  losing  side  swallow  their 
disappointment  as  best  they  can.  The  negro 
minstrels  commence  their  soothing  strains 
and  the  men  who  swallow  hot  tow  or  allow 
stones  to  be  broken  on  their  bare  chests 
give  their  performances ;  the  adjacent 
public-houses  become  crowded  ;  a  few 
fights  take  place ;  pigeons  are  let  loose 
for  distant  villages  ;  air-balloons 
bearing  the  names  of  theatres 
and  their  performances,  or  of 
enterprising  newspapers  or  Turf- 
tipsters,  are  sent  up.  The  vehicles 
either  speed  back  to  town  or  take 
their  occupants  to  Richmond  ;  the 
steam-launches  turn  their  heads 
Londonwards,  and  the  sight- 
seers on  foot  stream  off  to  the 
railway  stations ;  while  the 
"sportsman"  who  invites  you 
to  back  the  "  'art,  the  hanker, 
or  the  diaming,"  or  find  the 
queen  as  he  performs  the 
three-card  trick,  packs  up  his 
traps  and  departs.  The  boat 
race  is  over  and  done 
with  for  another  year. 

Only    a    passing    line   of 
reference     need    be    made 
to    Hurliiigham.     So    long 
connected      with      pigeon- 
shooting — for  which  it  was 
principally  founded   in  the 
early  'sixties,  while  water- 
polo    was    introduced    ten 
years   later — it  still   stands 
at  the  head  of  other  asso- 
ciations of  a   similar  kind, 
that,  while  they  may  even- 
tually rival  it  in  its  beauty 
and     aristocratic     associa- 
tions,  are   never   likely  to 
surpass  it.    Here  the  visitor^ 
or  guest,  finds  all  that  can 
minister  to  his  enjoyment. 
Excellent  bands  discourse 
sweet    music    beneath    the 
ancient    trees    that    grow    down    almost    to 
the  water's    edge ;    and    during   the   London 
season    the    best  dressed    women    of  fashion 
may  be  seen  attended   by  men  equally  well 

The  river — especially  its  pleasures  and,  in 
a  smaller  way,  its  sports — would  not,  however, 
have  full  justice  done  to  it  if  attention  were 
not  called  to  one  of  its  most  popular  haunts 
— i.e.  Kew.  For  here,  indeed,  the  home  of 
pleasure  for  many  holiday-makers  is  estab- 
lished, and  there  are  those  who  think  that  the 
succulent  winkle  and  shrimp  may  be  found 
at    their    best    in    this    resort.       Bread    and 




butter,  too,  are,  as  all  the  world  knows — or 
should  know — partaken  of  in  large  quan- 
tities, accompanied  by  the  health -<^iving 
watercress  while  washed  down  by  a  stron<j 
highly-flavoured  tea,  good  for  promoting 
■digestion  after  a  stroll  in  the  celebrated 
gardens.  Who  has  not  seen  the  mystic 
legend  inscribed  over  many  a  river- 
side door  here — the  legend  announcing 
"  Tea  and  hot  water,  gd."  ?  and  who  has 
not  gently  wondered  why  the  hot 
water  should  be  so  emphatically 
mentioned,  since,  to  make  tea  without 
hot  water,  is  at  present  regarded  as 
an  almost  unattainable  feat  ? 

Kew  has  its  visitors,  however,  for 
other  things  besides  the  Botanic 
Gardens    and    the    above   appetising 

river  can  provide.  And  here  is  the  spot 
where  sweet-scented  and  beautifully  varie- 
gated bouquets  have  been  sold  near  the 
steamboat  pier  and  the  south  side  of  the 
bridge — the  old  bridge — from  long  past  days, 
and  are  still  sold. 

One  wonders  sometimes  what  Londoners 
would  be  like  if  it  were  not  for  the  river.  Its 
waters  have  not,  it  is  true,  been  pellucid  for 
many  a  day  ;  salmon  is  no  longer  caught  at 

I.    AT   PRACTICE.        II.    "  BOATS   TO    LET. 

refreshments.  Anglers  come  here  to  fish 
for  barbel,  of  which  there  is  still  a  famous 
■"  swim "  even  lower  down,  namely,  at 
Barnes  ;  and  there  is  an  eyot  where 
skeleton  leaves  can  be  obtained  in  large 
quantities — the  kind  of  leaves  our  grand- 
mothers pinned  and  pressed  between  the 
pages  of  books  with,  often  enough,  an 
auspicious  date  marked  against  them  and 
the  initials  of  what  was,  doubtless,  a  masculine 
name.  Here,  too,  are  rowing  clubs  capable  of 
producing  crews  and  scullers  of  no  mean 
prowess,  quite  fitted  to  contend  for  victory 
in    any  regatta   or  water   contest  which  the 

Putney  as  it  was 
in  the  middle  of 
the  eighteenth 
century,  and  the 
nightingale  no 
longer  sings  out- 
side Barn  Elms  or 
Craven  Cottage, 
where  Bulwer- 
Lytton  lived  some 
time.  But  boys 
have  bathed  from 
time  immemorial 
in  the  stream,  and 
will  continue  to  do  so  ;  they  have  also  for 
a  long  while  hired  boats  in  which  to  take 
what  is  called  "  penny  sweats  " — i.e.  enough 
of  them  band  together  to  hire  a  boat  (not 
generally  the  best  the  boatman  has  to  let),  and 
so  get  their  modicum  of  exercise.  Who,  too, 
has  not  rowed  on  the  classic  stream,  either  in 
outrigger,  racing-boat,  or  randan  ? — who  that 
is  a  Londoner  has  not  plunged  "the  labouring 
oar  "  into  its  waters  and  rowed  his  lady-love 
up  river,  or,  if  the  tide  is  very  strong,  gone 
ashore  and  towed  the  boat  containing  the  fair 
one,  the  luncheon-basket  and  the  tea-kettle, 
as  well  as  other  things  ?     Who,  too,  has  not 



fed  the  swans  that  abound  on  the  river,  and 
alternately  teased  or  played  with  them,  while 
some,  perhaps,  have  even  witnessed  the  cere- 
mony of  swan-upping,  which  is  occasionally 
called  "  swan -hopping"?  This  ceremony 
consists  in  marking  the  birds  on  the  upper 
mandible  of  the  bill  with  nicks  ;  the  Royal 
swans,  of  which  there  are  many,  having 
two  diamonds,  those  of  the  Dyers  Company 
one  nick,  and  those  of  the  Vintners  Company 
two  nicks.  From  this  old  practice  comes 
the  corrupted  inn-sign,  "  The  Swan  with 
Two  \ecks." 

Of  late  years  old  customs  have  been 
revived  on  the  Royal  River  which  had 
quite  sunk  out  of  fashion,  and  they  now 
share  with  the  boat-clubs  of  men  and 
women  the  office  of  furnishing  both  pleasure 
and  sport  upon  it.  Regattas  have  much 
increased  and  multiplied  ;  so,  too,  have  water 
carnivals.  Richmond,  amongst  other  places, 
organises  several  of  the  latter,  and  the  beauti- 

ful and  brilliant  scenes  on  the  illuminated 
water  and  the  river  banks  on  a  summer 
night  are  not  unworthy  competitors  with 
those  of  Venice.  Indeed,  the  Thames  above 
bridge,  while  having  its  fair  share  in  utility,, 
is  the  greatest  contributor  to  the  Londoner's 
open-air  enjoyment,  and  is  without  a  rival. 
For  the  pleasure-seeker  can  bathe  and  row^ 
if  he  chooses  ;  he  can,  on  the  other  hand,  if 
he  is  not  athletically  disposed,  be  conveyed 
upon  it  in  steamers  or  launches  or  sailing- 
boats,  and  he  can  dwell  on  its  shores  at  any 
point  which  he  to  select ;  while,  when 
he  has  left  London  a  few  miles  behind  him^ 
he  can,  if  an  angler,  fish  to  his  heart's  content. 
Moreover,  no  part  of  England  is  better  fur- 
nished with  good  hotels  and  inns  where 
everything  that  the  heart  of  man  can  desire 
is  to  be  found,  so  that,  as  one  poet  has 
remarked,  the  holiday-maker  can  "  take  his 
ease  at  his  inn,"  and,  in  the  words  of  another, 
"  find  his  warmest  welcome  there." 


The    Roman    Catholic    Cathedral,    Westminster, 




LONDON   entertains,    perhaps    unawares, 
some  half-million  of  persons  professing 
the  Roman  Catholic  faith.     Not  all  of 
this   multitude  actually   practises  its  religion 

cover  a  larger  total  area  of  earth,  and  West- 
minster Cathedral  boasts  the  broadest  nave  of 
all.  A  bold  man  is  he  who  builds  a  cathedral ; 
he  has  about  him  the  tongues  of  Babel,  and 


by  going  to  mass  on  Sundays  and  to  its 
"duties"  (confession  and  communion)  at 
Easter.  "  The  world  is  too  much  with  us  " 
is  a  Wordsworthian  sigh  upon  the  lips  of 
nominal  adherents  of  every  creed. 

"  Nominal  Catholics," therefore, exist;  other- 
wise the  antithetical  term  "practical  Catholics  " 
would  not  need  to  be  very  commonly  heard 
among  them.  Of  the  number  of  these 
practical  Catholics,  failing  an  official  census, 
nothing  can  be  certainly  known.  But 
London  has  no  fewer  than  eighty  churches 
for  their  accommodation — and  in  nearly  all 
of  these  a  succession  of  masses  on  Sunday 
morning,  so  that  every  seat  may  have  been 
occupied  twice  or  thrice.  The  Westminster 
Cathedral,  dreamt  of  by  Cardinal  Manning 
and  realised  by  Cardinal  Vaughan,  possesses 
that  ideal  conjunction — an  actual  as  well 
as  an  official  pre-eminence.  Only  the  Abbey 
and  St.  Paul's  of  all  churches  in  London 

in  this  Westminster  case  nearly  Babel's  tower. 
Cardinal  Vaughan  heard,  and,  more  difficult 
still,  did  not  hear.  He  wasted  on  idle  dis- 
cussions none  of  the  energy  which  was 
otherwise  required.  Fortune  and  generosity 
supplied  the  ;if  200,000  that  had  to  pass  into 
the  bare  outwork  of  bricks. 

Next  to  the  Westminster  Cathedral  in 
size  comes  the  Oratory  Church  at  South 
Kensington.  It  is  served  by  over  a  dozen 
fathers.  These  do  not  belong  to  an  "  order  " 
in  the  sense  in  which  Franciscans  or  Bene- 
dictines do ;  but  they  live  in  community. 
Their  rule  is  that  of  St.  Philip  Neri,  adapted 
to  English  life  by  Cardinal  Newman.  He 
(from  Birmingham,  too !)  was  the  nominal 
founder  of  the  London  Oratory ;  but  its 
actual  founder  was  Father  Faber — he  whose 
hymns,  sung  within  their  native  walls  at  Sun- 
day and  week-day  evening  services,  are  echoed 
in  churches  and  chapels  of  every  other  creed 

2  so 


— in  truth,  a  great  "  conspiracy  of  song." 
Its  site  lies  wiiere  se\eral  ways  meet  and 
part  —  types  of  the  many  crises  of  the 
spiritual  life  its  walls  have  witnessed— the 
fare-veils  involved  by  "  conversions,"  the 
meetings,  the  marriages,  the  last  rites  over 
the  dead.  In  this  church,  or  in  its  prede- 
cessor on  the  same  site,  Lothair  (the  third 
Marquess  of  Bute)  was  married  (but  not 
to  Corisande),    Lord    Beaconsfield   languidl)- 

churches  which  need,  for  the  most  part,  no 
special  description.  But  "  Farm  Street " — 
the  church  of  the  Jesuit  Fathers,  planted  amid 
the  mundane  glories  of  Grosvcnor  Square 
— demands  a  word.  Between  Oratorians 
and  Jesuits  may  be  supposed  to  exist  a 
certain  "holy  rivalry,"  which  the  westerly 
and  south-westerly  trend  of  the  social  stream, 
perhaps,  intensifies.  But  the  sons  of  St. 
Ignatius,    who     are    sometimes    called     the 

looking    on.      Here,   too,    the    Marquess   of     "  Apostles    of  the    Genteels,"    are    really    of 

Ripon  laid  do\\n  his 
wand  as  Grand  Master 
of  the  Freemasons,  Mr. 
Gladstone  metaphoricalh' 
observing  anything  but 
languidly  ;  forging,  indeed, 
out  of  that  hot  mood,  a 
famous  new  arrow  -  head 
for  his  quiver  as  an 
anti- Vatican  pamphleteer. 
Here  was  the  Requiem 
sung  over  beloved  Car- 
dinal Manning's  bier ;  here 
was  held  the  Victorian 
Diamond  Jubilee  .service 
of  1897  ;  here  Edward 
VII.,  when  Prince  of 
Wales,  has  assisted  at  a 
nuptial  mass ;  and  here, 
too,  is  a  bench  which 
has  been  the  judges' — all 


no  fixed  time  or  place. 
They  are  a  floating  popu- 
lation, sent  hither  and 
thither  by  their  superiors 
— it  may  be  to  martyr- 
dom in  Japan,  or  in  the 
London  slums,  or  in  the 
fumes  of  Widnes.  They 
come  and  go.  At  one  of 
these  altars,  where  mem- 
bers of  the  devout  female 
sex,  and  of  the  sex  that 
is  not  devout,  may  be 
seen  kneeling  at  all  hours 
to-day.  Manning  said  his 
first  mass.  Only  a  few 
weeks  earlier  he  was 
"charging"  Chichester  as 
its  archdeacon  ;  and  in 
later  years,  by  another 
great  change  of  domestic 

gathered    together   to    pay    the    last    tribute  sentiment,  he  ceased  to  love  Jesuits. 

of  homage  to  Lord  Russell  of  Killowen.  The    mention     of    Manning     recalls     his 

History  gets  made  quickly,  you  perceive ;  saying    that    pulpit    oratory    is    one    of    the 

for    it    is    only    about    fifty   years    since   the  three  wounds  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church 

first  Oratorians   in  England  (most  of  whom  in    England.       Sermons,    in      fact,     take     a 

were    Oxford    and    clerical    converts)    settled  secondary  place  to-day,  as  ever,  in  Catholic 

on  this  site,  and  were  stoned  in  the  streets  services  ;   preaching   is  not   practised   as   an 

for  their  pains.      Their  own    pile   of  stones  art.   "  Farm  Street,"  however,  has  its  eloquent 

is  that  which  remains,  and  the  noble  dome  preacher   in    Father    Bernard    Vaughan,    as 

which    crowns    the    edifice    is    an    admitted  the  Oratory  has  in  Father  Sebastian  Bowden 

adornment — amid    a    hundred     modern    de-  (formerly  an  officer  in  the  Guards)  its  direct 

facements  —  of    London.       Apart    from    its  one.     Of  this    Mayfair    church   Mrs.  Craigie 

memories    (and    a    full    share    of    sad    ones)  ("  John     Oliver     Hobbes ") — herself    a    wor- 

the  church    is  a  "  show "  one,   by   reason  of  shipper    there — says,  in    "  The    Gods,    Some 

its    size,   its    abundance  of  marble,  its  many  Mortals,  and  Lord  Wickenham,"  that  her  hero 

altars,   its   .saints    and    cherubs,   with    all    the  "  used  to  sit  near  the  altar  of  Our  Lady  of 

flourishes  and  flying  draperies  of  the  Italian  Lourdes,  where  he  could  see,  at  the  end  of  the 

Renascence.  aisle,  another  altar  and  the   pendant    lamps 

I   dwell  on  this  very  representative  church  before  it.     The  odour  of  the  flowers,  incense, 

because   what  is  said  of  it  can  be  more  or  melting  wax,  and  that  .something  else,  like 

less  applied  to  the  other  seventy  and    nine  the   scent   of  goodly   fruit   stored   away   for 





the  hungry  winter,  gave  liim  a  welcome. 
The  little  silver  hearts  which  hung  in  a  case 
by  the  altar  had  each  some  stor)^  to  tell  of 
a  faithful  vow."  This  is  the  literature  of 
fiction.  The  literature  of  fact  has  its 
devotees  inside  the  large  red-brick  house 
adjoining  the  church  ;  and  among  the  busiest 
researchers  at  the  British  Museum  are  sons 
of  St.   Ignatius. 

To  the  east  and  to  the  west,  two  miles 
each  way  from  the  Marble  Arch  (the  site 
of  old  T)-burn,  where  many  a  Jesuit  was 
hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  lie  the  churches 
of  St.  Etheldreda  and  of  St.  Mary  of  the 
Angels,  served  by  sons  of  St.  Charles  Bor- 
romeo.  The  "  Tube  "  covers  in  a  few  minutes 
the  four  miles  between  them.  In  Ely  Place, 
an  enclosure  on  the  very  confines  of  the  Cit}', 
and  within  sight  almost  of  La  Belle  Sauvage 
Yard,  stands  St.  litheldreda's  Church,  with 
its  thirteenth-century  cr_\pt — an  ancient  fane, 
and  one  of  the  few  of  the  actual  churches  of 
"  The  Old  Religion  "  restored  to  the  ancient 
rites.  It  somehow  got  into  the  market,  and 
was  bought  by  Father  Lockhart,  a  relative 
of  Walter  Scott's  son-in-law,  and  himself  the 
first  of  Newman's  young  community  at  Little- 
more  to  secede  from  the  Anglican  Church. 
Long  will  the  memory  remain  of  his  hand- 
some face  and  figure,  as  he  stood  in  the 
surrounding  streets  preaching  on  the  tee- 
totalism  he  practised.  He  belonged  to  the 
Fathers  of  Charity  ;  and  there  was  full 
accord  between  his  aim  and  name.  The 
sons  of  St  Charles  Borromeo  (he  was  an 
archbishoiJ   of    Milan,   who    loved   the   poor 


and  fought  the  plague  and  established  Sunday 
schools)  were  planted  by  Manning  among 
rather  mean  streets  in  Bayswater.  You  note 
the  meanness,  because  it  contrasts  with  the 
reputed  "  ambition  "  of  its  founder.  Hither 
to  him  came  the  world  to  which  he  would 
not  go  ;  and  "  receptions  into  the  Church " 
— the  only  receptions  he  ever  loved — have 
not  ceased  to  be  an  order  of  the  day. 

To  churches  with  specialised  congregations 
— for  Italians,  in  Hatton  Garden,  and  others 
— reference  is  elsewhere  made  in  this  work. 
The  Sardinia  Street  Chapel,  Lincoln's 
Inn,  once  tolerated  and  protected  only 
as  a  chapel  of  an  ambassador,  became  in 
the  fulness  of  time  the  scene  of  the  Red 
Mass  (so  called  in  Paris  from  the  colour  of 
the  legal  robes),  where  Roman  Catholic 
members  of  the  Bar  gathered  at  the  beginning 
of  a  term  to  invoke  a  blessing  on  its  labours 
— a  notable  gathering  in  which  might  be 
seen,  at  one  time  or  another.  Lord  Brampton, 
Lord  Russell  of  Killowen,  Sir  John  Day, 
Sir  James  Mathew,  Sir  Joseph  Walton,  and 
Lord  Llandaff.  Cross  the  water  to  South- 
wark,  and  you  find  its  own  cathedral,  famous 
for  its  congregational  singing,  and  the  centre 
of  a  circle  of  spiritual  and  temporal  activities 
for  the  amelioration  of  the  lot  of  the  poor 
who,  as  Charles  Booth  shows,  are  poorest 
of  the  poor  in  that  region. 

The  Religious  Orders  are  dotted  about 
London,  which  loses  in  picturesqueness  by 
the  non-appearance  in  the  streets  in  their 
own  religious  dress  of  Friars  of  Orders 
Grey  and  of  monks  who  make  their  habits, 
though  habits  do  not  make  the 
monk.  By  Act  of  Parliament  they 
are  forced  into  the  coats,  trousers, 
and  headgear  that  mean  despair  for 
the  artist.  The  Carmelites  abstain 
from  flesh,  and  rise  by  night  to  sing 
the  Divine  Office,  in  Church  Street, 
Kensington ;  the  Dominicans  are  at 
Haverstock  Hill,  the  Capuchins  at 
Peckham,  Franciscans  at  Stratford, 
Passionists  at  Highgate,  Benedictines 
at  PLaling,  Augustinians  (whose  habit 
Luther  wore)  at  Hoxton  Square ; 
and  there  are  Canons  Regular, 
Redemptorists,  Servites,  and  many 
more.  Congregations  of  women 
abound  ;    and    their   habits  are  seen 




in  the  streets,  for  in  this  matter  of  the 
rehgioiis  dress,  as  in  most  others,  it  is  women 
who  lead.  Carmehte  nuns,  with  St.  Teresa's 
habit,  and  Poor  Clares,  do  not  come  from 
their  enclosure.  But  Sisters  of  Nazareth 
will  call  anywhere  in  their  carriage — 
they  name  it  a  cart — on  anyone  in  "  the 
world,"  and  they  do  not  always  wait  for 
invitations.  They  beg  in  fact  from  door 
to  door  for  food  for  the  six  or  seven  hun- 
dred poor  whom  they  entertain  at  Naza- 
reth House,  Hammersmith.  In  this  great 
family  are  young  children  and  old  men  and 
old  women,  into  one  of  whose  wards 
our  illustrator  has  taken  no  idly  intru- 
sive peep.  The  Little  Sisters  of  the 
Poor  are  of  their  kindred  ;  and  there  are 
Sisters  of  Mercy,  who,  among  their  works  of 
the  same  kind,  include  the  Hospital  of  St. 
John  and  St.  Elizabeth  for  suffering  children 
at  St.  John's  Wood ;  nuns  of  the  Good 
Shepherd,  with  their  great  laundry  worked 
by  penitent  women  ;  the  nuns  who  manage 
the  French  Hospital  ;  the  Sisters  of  Zion, 
those  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  and  those  at  the 
Convent  of  the  Assumption,  to  all  of  whom 
flock  girls  of  Catholic  parents  for  education — 
these  and  many  more  ;  the  Sisters  who  go 
out  to  nurse  (and  do  not  refuse  a  small-pox 

case),  and  the  Sisters  who  carry  on  the  great 
night  Refuge  in  Crispin  Street  ;  those  who 
assist  the  Rescue  Crusade  among  boys, 
and,  last  but  not  least  in  a  list  not  easily 
exhausted,  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  in  whose 
great  house,  in  Carlisle  Place,  Lady  Ethel- 
dreda  Howard  amid  other  all  noble  women 
has  chosen  the  life  of  sacrifice. 

Come,  finally,  to  Archbishop's  House, 
Westminster,  where  Archbishop  Bourne 
rules,  and  preserves  a  stately  solitude, 
though  surrounded  by  a  large  working 

He  has  a  word  for  everyone — well  judged, 
shrewd,  fatherly.  Forms  and  formalism  are 
not  necessarily  related.  The  Archbishop  is 
a  young  man  among  the  Bishops  over 
whom  he  presides.  These  include  Bishop 
Hedley,  a  literary  man  and  a  Benedictine ; 
also  Bishop  Amigo,  from  Southwark,  like 
the  Archbishop  himself,  a  teetotaller.  Then 
you  see  an  ex-Army  chaplain,  wearing 
military  orders ;  and  you  have  been  able, 
perhaps,  before  you  have  taken  your  leave, 
to  tell  Monsignor  John.son  how  indebted 
to  his  "  Catholic  Directory "  is  any  writer 
(and  therefore  any  reader)  of  a  paper  such 
as  this — crumbs  gathered  from  his  abundant 





IT  is  doubtful  whether,  both  from  the  nature 
of  his  being  and  the  character  of  his 
environment,  the  Londoner  of  any  class 
can  be  said  to  be  unduly  addicted  to  thrift. 
In  the  sense  in  which  the  French  peasant 
and  the  Paris  bourgeois,  the  Scotsman  and 
the  Cornishman,  always  save  a  little,  however 
small  may  be  their  income,  the  Londoner 
is  a  monument  of  extravagance.  It  must,  of 
course,  be  remembered  that  expenses  of  living 
in  the  Metropolis  are  immeasurably  greater 
in  proportion  to  income  than  they  are  almost 
anywhere  else,  and  the  storm  and  stress  of 
life  in  a  great  city  practically  compel  a  man 
to  spend  a  certain  part  of  his  income  in 
amusement  and  distraction  which  in  healthier 
circumstances  he  would  not  require.  At  the 
same  time,  alongside  the  manifold  agencies  for 
spending  money  that  exist  in  our  city,  there 
are  innumerable  agencies  for  the  encourage- 
ment of  thrift,  from  great  institutions  like 
the  Post  Office  Savings  Bank,  with  its 
millions  of  depositors,  to  the  humble  Slate 
Club  held  in  the  top  room  of  a  public-,  with  its  constant  difficulties  of  ob- 
taining subscriptions   from   its  members  and 

sometimes    of    getting   them    back    from    its 
treasurer ! 

The  baby's  money  box  may  be  said  to  be 
the  beginning  of  thrift ;  but  in  these  pro- 
gressive days  the  money  box,  from  which 
ingenuity  and  a  dinner  knife  can  extract  the 
pennies,  is  naturally  regarded  with  suspicion. 
So  the  modern  baby  obtains,  presumably 
through  his  legal  guardians,  a  form  from  the 
nearest  Post  Office,  turns  his  pennies  into 
stamps,  and  sticks  them  on  to  the  form, 
and  then,  when  he  has  collected  twelve, 
lodges  them  at  the  nearest  Post  Office,  where 
the  money,  instead  of  lying  idle  and  unpro- 
ductive like  the  talent  of  the  unfaithful  servant 
hidden  in  a  tin  money  box  instead  of  a  napkin, 
earns,  as  soon  as  a  pound  has  been  accumu- 
lated, two  and  a-half  per  cent,  for  the  thrifty 
infant.  Or,  if  the  legal  guardian  to  whom  I 
have  referred  is  a  person  of  individualistic 
tendencies  who  regards  the  enlargement  of 
governmental  action  with  suspicion,  the  child 
may  take  his  pennies  to  the  nearest  branch 
of  the  National  Penny  Bank,  which  receives 
deposits  from  a  penny  upwards,  and  there 
the  directors  will  guard  his  money  for  him, 



and  also  give  him  a  certain  rate  of  interest. 
There  is  even  for  the  budding  capitalist  a 
third  alternative.  The  Salvation  Army  Reli- 
ance Bank  will  provide  him  with  a  money 
box  not  of  unsubstantial  tin  or  brittle  wood 
which  will  enable  the  greed  for  chocolate 
of  to-day  to  break  through  and  steal  the 
careful  forethought  of  yesterday,  but  a  strong 
receptacle,  recalling  in  a  miniature  manner 
the  masterpieces  of  the  great  safe-makers. 
This  bo.x  is  supplied  with  a  strong  padlock, 
the  key  of  which  is  in  the  hands  of  the  Salva- 
tion Army  agent,  who  at  certain  periods  visits 
the  house,  unlocks  the  box,  counts  the  pennies, 
for  which  he  gives  a  receipt,  and,  going  one 
better  than  the  Post  Office  allows  the  youthful 
depositor  three  per  cent. 

In  any  account  of  the  way  London  saves, 
the  Post  Office,  both  from  the  magnitude  of 
its  transactions  and  its  governmental  position, 
naturally  claims  first  consideration.  More 
than  ;^i40,ooo,ooo  are  deposited  in  the 
Post  Office  Savings  Bank,  and  of  this  huge 
sum,  though  there  are  no  official  figures, 
London  may  be  assumed  to  own  a  quarter. 
Of  the  total  number  of  depositors  sixty  per 
cent,  are  women  and  children,  ninety  per 
cent,  own  less  than  fifty  pounds,  and  pro- 
bably  seventy-five   per  cent,   belong   to   the 

industrial  It  is  natural  and 
inevitable  that  amongst  the  folk,  who  in 
their  most  prosperous  times  are  only  removed 
one  hair's  breadth  from  .semi-starvation,  the 
women  should  be  the  most  thrifty.  This  fact 
is  illustrated  in  the  figures  issued  by  institu- 
tions similar  to  the  Post  Office  Savings  Bank. 
There  are  a  thousand  branch  savings  banks 
in  London.  At  the  central  office  3,000 
persons,  of  whom  nearly  half  are  women, 
are  engaged  in  managing  the  savings  of  the 
poor  man.  The  Post  Office  encourages 
youthful  thrift  by  allowing  school  teachers  to 
collect  the  pennies  of  their  pupils  either  by 
the  use  of  stamp  forms  or  by  instituting 
penny  banks,  the  funds  of  which  are  placed 
in  bulk  in  the  Post  Office  Savings  Bank. 

Somewhat  similar  in  aim  and  method  is  the 
National  Penny  Bank,  founded  by  Mr.  (now 
Sir)  George  C.  T.  Bartley,  M.P.,  with  the  late 
Duke  of  Westminster,  the  late  Earl  of  Derby, 
and  other  friends,  in  1875.  The  Penny 
Bank,  which  began  as  a  philanthropic  insti- 
tution, has  by  careful  management  been  put 
on  a  thoroughly  sound  commercial  basis, 
and  its  depositors  have  the  .satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  they  are  obtaining  the 
benefits  of  a  genuine  business  and  not  of  a 
mere  charit}'.    The  National  Penny  Bank  has 





thirteen  branches,  of  which  that  in  the 
Hackney  Road  is  one  of  the  busiest.  As 
an  illustration  of  its  operations,  during 
one  week  before  Christmas  ;^  150000  was 
withdrawn  by  its  depositors,  while  during 
the  week  previous  the  weight  of  money 
paid  over  the  counters  was  i  ton  18  cwts. 
1 1 1  lbs.,  of  which  ninety  per  cent,  was  silver. 
The  ledgers  are  probably  the  most  remark- 
able documents  owned  by  any  banking  house. 
Here  is  a  typical  account.  It  began  on 
the  first  day  of  a  month  with  the  deposit 
of  a  penny,  which  was  increased  four  days 
afterwards  to  eightpence.  Two  days  later 
it  was  brought  down  to  twopence  by  the 
withdrawal  of  sixpence.  It  then  rose  again 
in  three  jumps  to  one  and  twopence,  fell 
again  to ,  threepence,  then  to  a  penny,  and 
after  an  interval  of  three  months  the  account 
was  closed.  This  is  an  instance  of  the 
intricate  nature  of  the  bank's  account.  Some 
years  back  there  was,  for  various  reasons,  a 
run  on  the  bank.  Customers  poured  in 
demanding  their  money.  Everyone  was  paid, 
including  two  costermongers,  who  drew  out 
between  them  in  gold  and  silver  something 
like  fifty  pounds.  About  an  hour  afterwards 
they  returned  and  asked  the  cashier  if  he 
would  kindly  take  their  money  back  again. 
"  What    has    made   you    alter  your  minds  ? " 

said  the  cashier.  "  Well,  guv'nor,"  said  one 
of  the  costers,  "  me  and  my  mate,  w'en  we 
got  outside,  didn't  know  wot  to  do  with  the 
stuff,  so  Bill  sez  to  me,  '  Let's  tyke  it  to 
Coutts's.'  We  went  dahn  the  Strand,  guv'nor, 
and  blowed  if  Coutts's  man  didn't  refuse  to 
tyke  it !     So  we've  come  back  to  you." 

The  Salvation  Army  Reliance  Bank,  which 
has  its  headquarters  in  Queen  Victoria  Street, 
is,  as  far  as  its  deposit  side  is  concerned, 
worked  in  much  the  same  manner  as  the  Post 
Office.  The  bank  itself,  with  its  counters 
and  brass  railings,  flanked  with  clerks  in 
red  jerseys  with  "  S.A."  on  their  collars,  has 
a  novel  and  unexpected  appearance ;  and 
on  my  visit  I  could  not  help  being  impressed 
by  the  unusual  cheerfulness  and  civility  of 
everybody,  from  the  happy-looking  old 
gentleman  acting  as  hall  door  porter,  who 
directed  me  when  I  entered,  to  the  able  and 
courteous  manager — also  in  a  red  jersey — 
whose  manner  and  appearance  were  about 
as  unlike  one's  ideas  of  a  financial  magnate 
as  well  could  be.  The  curious  mixture  of 
spiritual  fervour  with  business  acumen  which 
is  characteristic  of  a  great  deal  of  General 
Booth's  organisation  was  exemplified  by  the 
fact  that  this  officer  was  reading  when  I  was 
shown  into  his  room  a  copy  of  the  latest 
Stock   Exchange  prices,  to  settle,  no  doubt. 



in    which    direction    to    invest     his     bani<'s 

Turning  to  another  branch  of  the  subject, 
it  would  be  impossible  to  attempt  even  to 
enumerate  the  different  benefit  and  friendly 
societies  of  one  sort  or  another  that  exist 
in  the  city  of  London.  Inquiries  go  to  prove 
that  in  almost  every  large  business — railway 
companies,  foundries,  manufactories,  and  so 
on — there  is,  in  addition  to  the  larger  outside 
societies,  some  sort  of  benefit  fund  attached 
to  the  firm  itself,  in  which  the  men's  subscrip- 
tions are  often  augmented  by  subscriptions 
from  the  masters.  These  funds  are  looked 
upon  with  a  very  great  deal  of  distrust  by 
the  trade  unions  and  friendly  societies' 
leaders,  and  there  seems  some  reason  to 
believe  that  in  certain  cases  they  are  ad- 
ministered too  much  by  the  master  and  too 
little  by  the  men,  though  I  am  inclined  to 
think  that  this  is  rather  the  exception  than 
the  rule.  A  large  number  of  publicans  and 
licensed  grocers  in  working  class  localities 
also  start  goose  clubs  and  Christmas  clubs 
amongst  their  customers,  in  which,  again,  the 
few  pence  or  shillings  put  by  every  week  for 
the  Christmas  festivities  are  often  increased 
by  the  publican. 

Perhaps  more  important  and  more  inter- 
esting are  the  great  friendly  societies  and 
their  host  of  small  imitators.  Briefly,  the 
object  of  a  friendly  society  may  be  stated 
to  be  the  payment  of  a  certain  weekly  sum 
to  the  members  in  time  of  sickness  and 
sometimes,  also,  when  out  of  work,  and  of 
a  certain  sum  to  the  widow  or  orphans 
on  the  decease  of  a  member.  No  one 
unacquainted  with  the  London  poor  can 
have  any  idea  of  the  extraordinary  desire, 
especially  amongst  the  women,  for  what  is 
called  a  decent  funeral  ;  and  I  find  by 
inquiries  amongst  clergymen  in  the  poorest 
districts  of  London  that  the  burial  club 
is  a  far  more  popular  institution  than  the 
organisation  which  provides  funds  to  tide 
its  members  over  bad  times,  whether  from 
sickness  or  from  want  of  employment. 
There  is  a  well  known  story  of  a  poor 
woman  who  dearly  loved  her  .son,  but  who, 
rather  than  spend  certain  money  in  buying 
port  wine  and  risk  his  having  a  pauper's 
funeral,  left  him  to  die  without  the  wine, 
and  had  a  burying  which  astonished  the 
neighbourhood.  I  myself  once  overheard  a 
conversation  in  an  omnibus  between  two 
elderly   matrons,  one  of  whom  said   to   the 






the  Sons  of  Temperance,  and  the  two 
Orders  of  Sons  of  the  Phoenix — the  last 
four  being  teetotal  organisations.  Their 
ramifications  are  very  difficult  to  follow, 
and  much  of  their  proceedings  is  kept 
secret  from  the  outsider.  But  generally 
they  may  be  fairly  accurately  said  to  be 
a  combination  of  freemasonry  and  an 
ordinary  friendly  society.  The  Foresters, 
for  example,  which  is  the  most  interest- 
ing of  them  all,  is  said — I  do  not  vouch 
for  the  accuracy  of  the  statement — to 
have  been  founded  by  Robin  Hood. 
Anyhow,  a  court  was  in  existence  in 
Leeds  in  1790,  and  Forestry  was  intro- 
duced into  London  in  1837.  It  con- 
sists of  nearly  a  million  members,  male, 
female,  and  juvenile,  and  its  funds  are 
approaching  seven  millions  sterling. 
The  admirable  objects  of  the  Foresters, 
which  again  may  be  taken  to  be  fairly 
typical  of  these  societies,  are : — 

To  establish  and  maintain  benefit  funds, 
from  which,  on  satisfactory  evidence  of  the 
death  of  a  member  of  the  society  who  has 
complied  with  all  its  lawful  requirements,  a 
sum  shall  be  paid  to  the  widow,  orphans, 
dependents,   or   other   beneficiary   whom   the 

and    it    must 
pore    thing,  to 

other,  "  Oh,  it  was  a  beautiful  funeral ! 
After  we  come  back  we  had  wine  and 
biscuits  and  sangwitches 
'ave  done  'er  'eart  good, 
'ave  been  able  to  bury  'er  'usband  so 
nice."  Of  course,  it  is  easy  to  philosophise 
over  the  wastefulness  of  money  spent  on 
elaborate  funerals,  but  it  is  all  very 
human  and  very  touching. 

Christmas  goose  clubs  are  held  in  con- 
nection with  many  institutes  and  clubs. 
The  Aldenham  Institute,  St.  Pancras, 
has  a  club  consisting  of  nearly  2,500 
members,  who  pay  weekly  contributions 
towards  a  Christmas  dinner,  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  good  things  taking  place  on 
Christmas  Eve.  Thanks  perhaps  to 
Dickens,  putting  by  for  Christmas  Day 
is  one  of  the  most  popular  forms  of 
London  Thrift. 

Among  the  friendly  societies  having 
branches  in  London  are  the  P^oresters, 
the  Buffaloes,  the  Druids,  the  United 
Patriots,  the  Oddfellows,  the  Rechabites, 




member  has  designated,  or  to  the  personal  re- 
presentative of  the  member,  as  laid  down  in  the 
said  laws. 

To  secure  for  its  members  such  other  advantages 
as  are  from  time  to  time  designated. 

To  unite  fraternally  all  persons  entitled  to  member- 
ship under  the  laws  of  the  society;  and  the 
word  "  laws "  shall  include  general  laws  and  bye- 

To  give  all  moral  and  material  aid  in  its  power  to 
its  members  and  those  dependent  upon  them. 

To  educate  its  members  socially,  morally,  and 

To  establish  a  fund  for  the  relief  of  sick  and 
distressed  members. 

A  characteristic  of  the  Foresters  and  most 

called  "  death  money."  Young  men  in  good 
health  in  receipt  of  a  wage  of  not  less 
than  24s.  per  week  are  eligible  for  membership 
between  the  ages  of  eighteen  and  thirty. 
The  entrance  fee  is  2s.  6d.,  and  the  sub- 
scription about  £2  a  year.  For  this  the 
benefits  include  i8s.  a  week  in  case  of  sick- 
ness, ^20  for  a  member's  funeral,  and  ;^io 
for  the  funeral  of  a  member's  wife — ladies 
apparently  costing  less  to  bury  than  gentle- 
men— 30s.  for  a  wife's  lying-in,  and  £1$  for 
loss  in  case  of  fire.  The  tremendous  business 
done  by  the  Hearts  of  Oak,  as  well  as  the 
fertility    of    its    members,   may    be    gauged 


of  the  other  societies  I  have  mentioned  is 
found  in  their  picturesque   regalia. 

The  older  trade  unions  also  very  largely  act 
as  benefit  societies,  and  offer  much  the  same 
advantages  to  their  members.  But  it  will  be 
remembered  that  when  the  new  Unionist 
movement  started  after  the  Dock  Strike,  it 
was  made  a  great  feature  that  the  trade 
union  should  be  exclusively  a  fighting  body, 
and  that  its  power  to  fight  for  higher  wages 
and  better  conditions  of  labour  should  not  be 
weakened  by  including  within  its  functions 
those  of  a  friendly  society. 

The  Hearts  of  Oak,  which  has  its  head- 
quarters near  Fitzroy  Square,  is  a  benefit 
society  worked  from  a  central  office.  It,  too, 
offers  to  its  members    sick  pay  and  what  is 

by  the  fact  that  from  1842,  when  the  society 
was  founded,  to  the  end  of  December,  1904, 
no  less  a  sum  than  ;^  1,1 90,628  was  paid  for 
lying-in  claims  alone,  while  the  total  money 
disbursed  for  all  benefits  amounted  to  over 
seven  and  a  half  million  pounds. 

Before  leaving  this  branch  of  the  subject  it 
is  interesting  to  notice  that  the  Jewish  and 
the  foreign  quarters  of  London  have  their 
own  friendly  societies,  with  their  own  peculiar 
names,  of  which  the  following  may  be  taken 
as  specimens  : — The  Podumbitzer  Friendly 
Society,  United  Brothers  of  Kalish,  Socheti- 
bover  Sick  Benefit,  Grand  Order  of  the  Sons 
of  Jacob,  and  so  on. 

The  building  society  is  the  favourite  means 
of  thrift  among  the  artisan  and  clerk  classes. 







There  are  innumerable  building  societies  all 
over  London,  some  of  which  are,  rather  oddly, 
connected  with  Dissenting  chapels,  and  often 
have  the  minister  of  the  chapel  as  one  of  the 
trustees.  The  method  of  the  building  society 
is  to  collect  money  in  small  sums  from  a  large 
number  of  persons  and  lend  it  to  others 
upon  real  securit}'.  The  method  has  many 
variations.  Usually  after  a  member  has  de- 
posited a  certain  amount  with  the  society 
sufficient  to  pay  a  proportion  of  the  price 
of  a  house  the  directors,  after  an  in- 
vestigation by  their  surveyor,  advance  the 
balance  of  the  purchase  price,  holding  the 
deeds  as  security,  and  this  advance,  together 
with  interest,  has  to  be  repaid  in  instalments 
over  a  specified  number  of  years,  the  result,  of 
course,  being  that  the  borrower  pays  probably 
rather  less  a  sum  than 
would  be  demanded  of 
him  for  rent,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years  owns 
a  house  of  his  own.  In 
one  instance  which  has 
come  to  my  knowledge  a 
doorkeeper  of  a  factory  in 
the  Euston  Road  has  in 
the  course  of  forty  years 
acquired  about  twenty 
houses  in  this  manner,  and 
has  become  possessed  of  a 

comfortable  income  which  he  will,  of  course, 
be  able  to  bequeath  to  his  heirs. 

There  are  between  2,000  and  3,000  build- 
ing societies  in  England  and  Wales,  and  the 
amount  of  business  they  do  may  be  gauged 
by  the  fact  that  in  the  Birkbeck — one  of 
the  best  known  London  societies — during  a 
recent  twelvemonth  8,700  persons  became 
depositors,  and  the  total  cash  received  during 
its  first  fifty  years  of  existence  amounted 
to  over  ^290,000,000  sterling.  Our  photo- 
graphic reproduction  on  page  257  depicts 
the  interior  of  the  well-known  Birkbeck 
Bank,  where  the  business  both  of  the 
building  society  and  of  the  bank  itself  is 

Among  interesting  minor  thrift  societies 
mention  may  be  made  of  a  very  admirable 
idea  which  has  been  started  in  West  London 
by  one  or  two  ladies,  whereby  servant  girls 
contribute  a  small  sum  monthly  to  the  funds 
of  what  is  called  a  Clothes  Club,  and  are 
provided  with  rather  more  than  the  value  of 
their  subscriptions  in  garments. 

I  have  endeavoured  to  give  a  kaleido- 
scopic view  of  the  many  varied  organisations, 
some  entirely  engineered  by  the  members 
themselves,  others  guided  and  fostered  by 
clergymen,  philanthropists.  Government  of- 
ficials, and  employers  of  labour,  which  have 
for  their  aim  the  encouragement  of  putting 
by  for  a  rainy  day  —  the  enunciation  01 
the  doctrine  that  to  look  after  the  pennies 
is  a  sure  and  certain  way  of  finding  that 
the  pounds  will  look  after  themselves,  and 
that  by  the  help  of  that  marvellous  institution 
called  interest,  if  you  cast  your  bread  upon 
the  waters,  it  will  come  back  to  j'ou  largely 
increased  in  bulk. 


Poslagc   Sl;niips  for 

DcpoMi    of    Oiiii   .shiiUng    in'  the  Post  Office 
Siivinsrs  Bank. 

12  Penny  Stamps  to  be  aHl^ed  below. 




26 1 




THE    stapl 

of  London 
conversation  is  the 
weather.  In  the 
street  the  usual 
greeting  among 
passing  acquaint- 
ances is  "  Fine 
day,"  or  "Wretched 
weather,"  as  the 
case  may  be.  At 
the  social  gather- 
ing the  weather  is 
the  subject  which 
usually  breaks  the 
ice,  and  at  the 
clubs  the  members 
meeting  in  the 
hall,  or  gazing  out 
of  the  big  front  windows,  invariably  refer  to 
the  atmospheric  conditions.  Of  late  years 
it  has  been  the  fashion  to  describe  most  of 
the  seasons  as  "  trying,"  and  to-da}'  the  news- 
papers have  taken  to  headlining  their  me- 
teorological paragraphs.  The  word  "phenom- 
enal "  has  come  into  vogue  for  the  autumn 
that  is  hot  and  the  spring  that  is  cold.     The 


Londoner  seems  to  be  always  hardly  used 
by  the  atmosphere,  and  the  elements  are 
continually  against  him.  If  it  is  hot,  it  is  a 
"  heat  wave "  and  unbearable ;  if  it  is  cold, 
it  is  a  "  blizzard  "  and  murderous. 

Having  made  up  their  minds  that  the 
weather  is  extraordinary,  Londoners  comport 
themselves  under  its  variations  in  a  more 
or  less  extraordinary  manner.  They  are 
never  prepared  for  heat  or  cold.  A  few 
days  of  blazing  sunshine  fill  the  streets  with 
eccentric  costumes  for  man  and  beast  alike. 
A  few  days  of  snow  drive  the  borough 
councils  to  the  end  of  their  wits,  and  paralyse 
the  traffic  of  the  busiest  city  in  the  world. 

But  though  only  the  extremes  of  heat  and 
cold  emphasise  the  Londoner's  helplessness 
to  the  point  of  ridicule,  the  weather  in  all 
its  phases  frames  a  picture  of  serio-comic 
suffering  which  is  well  worth  the  attention 
of  the  student  of  men  and  manners. 

London  in  the  heat  wave  is  always  inter- 
esting. The  streets  suddenly  become  white 
with  the  straw  hats  of  men  and  women. 
The  waistcoat  of  civilisation  is  abandoned, 
and  daring  young  men  wear  sashes  of 
colour  around  their  waists  which  are  dignified 
by  the  name  of  "  cummerbunds."     The  ladies 



in  their  lightest  array  anxiously  shield  their 
complexions  beneath  umbrellas  or  parasols 
of.  sufficiently  large  dimensions  to  be  of  use 
as  well  as  ornament.  Aristocratic  London  in 
the  heat  wave — so  much  of  it  as  remains  in 
town — seeks  the  shade  of  the  Park  at  an 
early  hour.  Occasionally  it  breakfasts  in 
Kensington  Gardens ;  it  dines  at  night  with 
its  windows  wide  open  amid  shaded  lights  ; 


and  the  balconies  of  the  west  have  an 
Oriental  character  until  the  midnight  hour. 
Ordinary  London — working  London  and 
loafing  London — maintains  no  dignity  in 
the  heat  wave.  Its  coats  come  off  in  un- 
accustomed places  ;  the  business  man  carries 
his  Panama  in  his  hand,  and  mops  his  brow  ; 
the  'busmen  and  the  cabmen  adorn  their 
horses'  heads  with  straw  bonnets,  and  tuck 
handkerchiefs  under  their  own  hats,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  Indian  puggaree.  "  Ice " 
becomes  the  legend  in  the  public-house 
windows ;  the  sale  of  white  linen  hats 
becomes    a    trade    of    the    kerbstone ;    and 

tattered  humanity  reclines  in  the  streets^ 
after  the  manner  of  the  Neapolitan  lazzaroni. 
The  steps  of  St.  Paul's  in  the  height  of  a 
heat  wave  are  frequently  used  for  the  at 
fresco  siesta  of  worker  and  loafer   alike. 

London  in  a  thunderstorm  is  a  scene 
of  panic.  At  the  first  clap  women  utter  a 
little  cry  of  terror  in  chorus,  and  make 
hurried  darts  into  drapers'  shops  or  con- 
venient doorways.  Pre- 
sently the  heavens  burst, 
and  a  terrific  storm  of 
rain  sweeps  over  the 
town.  Instantly,  as  if  by 
magic,  the  streets  are 
cleared :  where  the  pedes- 
trians have  vanished  to 
is  a  mystery.  But  the 
'buses  and  the  cabs  can- 
not escape.  The  'buses 
are  full  inside ;  the  out- 
side passengers  bend 
their  heads  to  the  pitiless 
storm,  cowering  under 
umbrellas  if  they  have 

The  cabmen  turn  up 
their  coat  collars,  and  the 
wet  reins  slip  through 
their  hands  ;  but  the  cab 
horse  plays  no  pranks  in 
the  heavy  downpour. 
The  rain  rattles  against 
the  lowered  glass ;  a 
small  Niagara  pours  off 
the  brim  of  cabby's  hat 
and  further  impedes  his 
view  ;  the  wheels  splash 
through  small  rivers 
of  muddy  water ;  and  presently  the  shop 
windows  and  the  adjacent  rails  are  mud- 
bespattered,  as  if  they  had  been  pelted  by 
an  indignant  crowd.  When  the  storm  abates, 
macintoshed  stragglers  appear  in  the  streets, 
but  the  outlook  seems  dank  and  miserable. 
The  ladies  compelled  to  be  abroad  tread 
gingerly  on  the  tips  of  their  toes.  A  cat 
has  no  greater  horror  of  wet  under  foot  than 
a  female  Londoner. 

London  in  a  fog  !  The  "  scene  "  is  unique  ; 
no  other  capital  in  the  world  can  show  the 
equal  of  "  the  London  Particular."  When 
the  yellow,  choking  mist  commences  to  roll 



up  in  the  daytime, 
London  is  filled  with 
effects  even  at  high 
noon.  The  h'ghts 
in  the  shops  are 
flaring,  the  hghts  in 
the  private  houses 
are  full  on.  You 
see  more  of  the 
""domestic  interior" 
on  a  foggy  day  than 
at  any  other  time, 
for  the  blinds  are 
not  drawn.  There 
is  no  more  pictur- 
-esque  peep-show 
than  the  London 
"domestic  interior" 
lighted  up  in  the 
daytime  with  the 
firelight  flickering 
■on  the  walls. 

Towards  night,  when  the  fog  has  not 
Hfted,  the  situation  becomes  tragic.  Fog 
signals  explode  with  startling  detonation  on 
the  railways ;  Dante's  Inferno  seems  to  have 
been    transported    to    the    town    upon     the 

liV    TOk(.HI.U;HT. 


Thames.  Boys  and  men  wander  here  and 
there  with  torches,  and  lend  a  diabolical 
element  to  the  Cimmerian  gloom  ;  the  warn- 
ing shouts  of  'busmen  and  cabmen,  as  they 
move  slowly  forward,  now  getting  on  to  the 
pavement,  now  colliding  with  a  lamp-post, 
come  from  the  unseen.  Wayfarers,  busi- 
ness men  returning  from  their  occupation, 
belated  travellers  bound  for  distant  parts  of 
the  Metropolis,  grope  their  way  blindly  along, 
clutching  at  the  railings  of  the  houses  to 
make  sure  that  they  do  not  wander  into  the 
roadway  ;  when  they  come  suddenly  upon 
something  that  looks  like  a  policeman,  they 
ask  in  plaintive  voices  for  topographical 
guidance.  But  somehow  or  other  everybody 
gets  home — the  cabmen  find  their  stables, 
the  'busmen  their  yards.  On  the  morrow,  when 
the  gift  of  sight  is  once  more  of  practical  use, 
we  relate  our  adventures  as  humorous  ex- 
periences to  our  friends  who  had  the  good 
fortune  to  remain  indoors  during  "  a  London 

London  in  a  gale.  London,  when  the 
wild  north-easter  blows  over  a  wind-dried 
city,  is  trying  alike  to  the  temper  and  the 
dignity.  As  the  sign-boards  swing  the 
nervous  pedestrian  glances  uneasily  aloft.  At 
times  he  ceases  to  glance  anywhere,  and, 
turning  his  back  on  the  blast,  closes  his  eyes ; 




for  the  dust  which  has  eddied  and  swirled 
in  the  roadway  comes  on  a  sudden  gust,  in 
a  thick  cloud,  straight  at  him.  In  this  position 
the  male  pedestrian  is  uncomfortable  enough, 
but  the  female  pedestrian  is  an  object  to  melt 
the  heart  of  a  woman-hater.  To  keep  her  hat 
on  and  stand  her  ground,  as  the  wind  blowing 
fifty  miles  an  hour  spends  its  fury  on  her 
ample  skirts,  is  a  feat  that  requires  long 
practice.  If  she  is  wise  she  clutches  at  a  lamp- 
post or  a  railing  ;  if  she  trusts  to  her  own 
unaided  efforts  she  is  generally  blown  along 
in  a  series  of  undignified  little  jumps. 

When  the  wind  blows  furiously  in  London 
the  pavements  and  roadways  are  strewn  with 
rubbish  and  torn  paper,  fragments  of  news- 
paper contents  bills,  and  shop  sweepings. 
It  is  as  though  a  caravan  of  dust-carts  had 
strewn  their  contents  about  the  Metropolis. 
The  newspaper  bills  have  a  partiality  for  the 
middle  of  the  roadway,  where  they  frighten 
horses  or,  occasionally  rising  like  kites  in  the 
air,  wrap  themselves  round  the  face  of  a 
carman  or  an  outside  'bus  passenger.  The 
theatre  boards  and  newspaper  boards  outside 
the  shops  are  blown  down  here  and  there 
with  a  sharp  little  bang,  and  the  spectacle 
of  a  gentleman  wildly  careering  among  the 
traffic  after  his  hat  is  common.  A  gale  is 
usually  more  prolific  in  accidents  than  a  fog, 
and  there  is  always  a  long  list  of  casualties. 

London  in  a  drizzle — the  damp,  warm 
drizzle  that  goes  on  and  on  and  colours 
all  things  a  gloomy  drab — is  a  misery  unto 
men  and  a  woe  unto  women.  There  is  a 
penetrating  dampness  about  the  London 
drizzle  that  seems  gradually  to  mildew  the 
mind.  The  weather  is  repeated  in  the 
countenance  of  everybody  one  meets.  The 
pavements  have  become  gradually  like  the 
sea  sand  at  low  tide.  They  are  a  series  of 
small  puddles  relieved  by  pools  where  the 
stones  have  been  removed  for  repair.  The 
nice  conduct  of  an  umbrella  is  not  within  the 
genius  of  the  Londoner,  and  so  where  the 
crowd  waits  for  the  'buses  that  are  always  full 
inside,  or  in  the  busy  streets  where  there  are 
always  two  opposing  streams  of  pedestrians, 
there  is  constant  collision  and  apology, 
and  occasionally  one  man's  umbrella  drips 
down  the  neck  of  his  neighbour.  The 
bestowal  of  wet  umbrellas  in  omnibuses  and 
tram-cars  is  a  fertile  source  of  trouble.  With 

twelve  saturated  umbrellas  all  draining  at 
once  on  to  the  floor  of  a  crowded  vehicle,  and 
frequently  down  the  garments  of  the 
passengers,  the  inside  of  a  public  conveyance 
closely  resembles  a  bathing  machine. 

There  is  a  peculiar  blight  that  descends  on 
London  occasionally  and  lies  heavily  upon 
it  for  days.  The  skies  are  of  a  smoky  grey,  a 
yellowish  haze  narrows  the  horizon;  in  the 
parks  and  open  spaces  a  light  blue  mist 
hangs  upon  the  grass  and  envelops  the 
trunks  of  the  trees.  The  birds  are  silent,  the 
church  clocks  strike  with  a  muffled  sound. 
The  depression  extends  alike  to  beast 
and  man.  The  cab  and  'bus  horses  go 
lazily,  the  crowds  of  human  beings  move  about 
as  though  they  had  a  silent  sorrow.  It  is 
then  the  words  "  Beastly  weather  "  are  heard 
everywhere,  and  men  yawn  publicly.  There 
is  even  a  pessimistic  note  in  the  public  Press, 
and  if  Parliament  is  sitting  a  dyspeptic  tone 
pervades  the  debates. 

But  it  is  when  London  has  had  a  snowstorm 
that  the  Londoner  is  seen  under  the  most 
depressing  conditions  of  all.  The  beautiful 
snow  of  the  Christmas  number  has  no  joys  for 
him.  Short  spells  of  frost  may  come  now 
and  then,  but  they  are  marred  by  the  dread 
anticipations  of  the  thaw  that  must  follow. 
London  under  a  rapid  thaw  is  the  paradise 
of  plumbers,  but  it  is  the  other  place  for 
everybody  else. 

Yet  London  half-flooded  by  thaw  is  but  a 
minor  evil  compared  with  the  flooding  of 
certain  low  -  lying  districts  that  follows  a 
long  period  of  heavy  rain.  South  London 
is  sometimes  the  scene  of  an  e.xtensive 
inundation.  Lambeth  Marshes  are  under 
water ;  houses  in  this  neighbourhood  are 
flooded  in  cellar  and  basement,  founda- 
tions are  rendered  unsafe,  and  the  inhab- 
itants are  for  many  days  amphibious.  The 
Thames  once  e.xtended  as  far  as  the 
Elephant  and  Castle  and  Newington  Butts, 
and  at  times  of  heavy  downpours  the 
dwellers  in  this  district  are  unpleasantly 
reminded  of  the  fact. 

But  to  return  to  the  snow.  When  the 
Londoner  wakes  up  in  the  morning  and 
sees  that  it  has  fallen  heavily  in  the  night 
— when  the  Londoner  looks  out  upon  a 
"  white  city  " — he  for  a  moment  appreciates 
the    poetry    of   the    picture.      But    directly 



London  begins  its  day's  work  the  scene 
is  changed.  The  traffic,  foot  and  horse, 
rapidly  crushes  the  snow  into  a  slushy  paste 
resembling  chocolate  in  the  early  process 
of  manufacture.  The  pavements  become 
slippery,  the  wood  and  the  asphalt  are 
skating  rinks.  If  the  snow  still  continues 
and  the  roads  freeze  hard,  or  only  partially 
thaw,  London  does  nothing.  The  unemployed 
are  immediately  remembered,  and  indignant 
citizens  rush  into  print,  demanding  an  army 
of  men  for  the  relief  of  the  situation. 

Presently  the  authorities  summon  up  courage 
to  attack  the  difficulty.  The  householder  has 
felt  compelled  to  clear  so  much  of  the  pave- 
ment as  lies  in  front  of  his  habitation,  or  has 
emplo\-ed  the  men  with  spades  who  peram- 
bulate the  suburbs  shouting,  "  Sweep  your 
doorway."  But  the  municipal  officials  have 
"  waited."  When  they  set  to  work  they 
generally  clear  the  roadway  by  shovelling  the 
snow  into  great  heaps  on  either  side. 
London  then  becomes  a  miniature  Switzer- 
land with  a  small  Alpine  range  running  along 
its  roadways. 

If  the  frost  holds  and  the  London  lakes 
freeze  over,  then  the  Serpentine  and  the 
ornamental  waters  in  Regent's  Park  revive 
for  a  day  or  two  the  vanished  glories  of 
the  Ice  Fair.  The  banks  are  lined  with  men 
who  bring  old  cane-bottomed  or  Windsor 
chairs    with    them,  and    do    a    roaring    trade 

in  affixing  skates  to  the  boots  of  the  select. 
Sliding  is  the  sport  of  the  small  boy,  who 
is  largel}'  represented  on  these  occasions. 
Picturesque  figures  are  the  Royal  Humane 
Society  men  in  their  cork  jackets,  and  not 
infrequently  their  services  are  reauired  to 
rescue  an  adventurous  skater  who  has  dis- 
dained the  warning  notice-board  of  danger. 

London  while  the  frost  holds  and  the  snow 
is  hard  is  exhilarating  for  the  young  and  the 
idle ;  snow-balling  is  indulged  in  in  spite 
of  police  prohibition,  and  in  some  parts  of 
the  suburbs  you  may  come  upon  the  juvenile 
sculptor's  effort  at  a  snowman.  But  snow  dis- 
organises the  traffic,  and  the  business  man 
suffers  and  growls,  while  the  poor  feel  their 
situation  acutely.  Many  trades  cease.  Frozen- 
out  gardeners  and  bricklayers  make  their 
appearance  in  slowly  walking  little  groups, 
and  seek  to  open  the  purse  strings  of  the 
charitable  by  chanting  doleful  ditties. 

But  London  under  the  snow  that  is  half 
snow  and  half  slush — London  under  a  week 
of  alternating  snow  and  frost — is  a  piteous 
spectacle.  A  general  paralysis  attacks  the 
whole  working  organisation.  The  train 
service  gradually  dissociates  itself  from  the 
time  tables,  the  omnibus  service  is  cut  down 
to  infinitesimal  proportions,  and  the  news- 
papers are  filled  with  sarcastic  comments 
concerning  "  The  Beautiful  Snow."  Then 
indeed  is  London  "  Under  the  Weather." 


•     ^  It. 

4w  W 

Fkolo  :    rori  4  Son-,  yotung  ihll.    If. 





EVERY  year  from  Scotland,  from  Ireland, 
and  from  Wales   young   men   flock  in 
hundreds   to   London.      They    are    of 
all  classes,   all  degrees  of  education,  united 
in  one  common  aim,  that,  namely,  of  making 

squares  to  struggling  practitioners  in  White- 
chapel  and  South wark.  Irish  barristers  are 
numerous,  and,  thanks  to  the  eloquence  which 
is  their  birthright,  win  fame  and  fortune  in 
their  profession.    Journalism  likewise  attracts 


a  living.  The  new-comers  find  employment 
in  many  different  ways.  Scotland  and 
Ireland  largely  recruit  the  ranks  of  the 
police  force.  The  Civil  Service,  too,  in  all 
its  branches  employs  many  Irishmen,  whose 
brilliant  talents  often  enable  them  to  rise 
from  small  posts  to  places  of  high  emolument 
and  power.  Mercantile  clerkships  attract  the 
Scot,  who  has  a  happy  knack  of  coming 
South  with  the  traditional  half-crown  in  his 
pocket,  and  by  thrift,  ability,  and  industry 
amassing  a  fortune.  Scottish  and  Irish 
doctors,  too,  abound,  from  men  who  have 
made    a    name    and    dwell    in    fashionable 

large  numbers  of  Scotsmen  and  Irishmen 
so  that  it  is  a  saying  in  Fleet  Street  that 
English  editors  are  kept  simply  to  correct 
the  "  shalls  "  and  "  wills  "  of  their  colleagues. 

Welshmen  in  their  pursuits  are  usually 
either  musical  or  mercantile,  and  frequently 
both.  Many  of  London's  leading  singers, 
both  men  and  women,  are  Welsh,  though 
both  Ireland  and  Scotland  contribute  their 
quota  of  musical  talent.  Indeed,  perhaps, 
the  gayest  and  most  picturesque  figure  to 
be  seen  in  London  streets  is  the  itinerant 
Scottish  piper  with  his  bagpipes,  a  man 
who,  if  he  does  not  rank  in  the  eyes  of  the 




world  with  the  musical  celebrities  of  his 
nation,  would  seem  to  have  a  "  guid  conceit " 
of  himself,  and  to  enjoy  mightily  the  interest 
he  rouses  in  quiet  residential  quarters. 

From  music  to  milk  is  an  easy  transition, 
if  we  may  judge  by  the  innumerable  old 
Welsh  ballads  which  begin  by  stating  that 
"Winnie"  or  "  Nesta  "  was  a  milkmaid.  It 
is  consequently  interesting  to  learn  that 
the  milk  trade  of  London  is  to  a  great 
extent  in  the  hands  of  the  Welsh.  Several 
drapery  establishments,  too,  are  owned  by 
enterprising  Welshmen. 

Very  many  Irishmen  of  the  poorest  class 
likewise  drift  to  London  in  search  of  employ- 
ment. Debarred  by  lack  of  means  from 
lodgings  where  the  rate  of  payment  is  high, 
and  yet  compelled  to  be  near  the  great 
industrial  centres  where  chance  jobs  may  be 
most  easily  picked  up,  they  and  their 
families  are  automatically  forced  into  slum 
dwellings  in  such  neighbourhoods  as  Poplar, 
Islington,  and  Southwark,  where  they  form 
colonies  of  people  wonderfully  good  and 
helpful  to  each  other,  but  over-crowded, 
deprived  of  all  that  brightens  and  beautifies 
existence,  and  compelled  to  bring  up  their 
children  under  circumstances  that  give  the 
little  ones  but  a  slender  chance  of  developing 
their  highest  po.ssibilities. 

The  Scot  who  comes  to  London  is  sure 
sooner    or    later    to   find    himself   in    touch 

with  the  Scottish  Corporation  in  Crane 
Court,  Fleet  Street.  This  body  occupies 
No.  7,  a  spacious  building  at  the  extreme 
end,  with  high-pitched  roof,  small  turrets 
to  the  front,  and  other  features  of  Scottish 
architecture.  Scottish  life  in  London  centres 
round  the  spot.  It  is  the  headquarters  of 
many  county  associations,  of  the  Highland 
Society,  the  Caledonian  Society,  the  Gaelic 
Society,  and  various  other  organisations. 
Because  of  the  innumerable  activities  and 
interests  concentrated  there,  7,  Crane  Court, 
has  been  called  "  The  Scottish  Consulate." 
The  house  is  modern,  having  been  rebuilt  in 
1880  on  the  site  of  the  old  hall  purchased  at 
the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  by  the 
Corporation  from  the  Royal  Society.  Sir 
Isaac  Newton's  presidential  chair  was  saved 
from  the  fire  which  destroyed  this  original 
building  as  well  as  many  valuable  paintings 
and  records ;  it  now  stands  in  the  board 

Ever  since  1665  the  Corporation  has  held 
an  annual  dinner  on  St.  Andrew's  Night, 
where  the  guests  in  full  Highland  costume 
are  marshalled  to  their  places  by  skirling 
pipers,  who  later  in  the  evening  head  a 
majestic  procession  of  cooks,  each  bearing 
on  a  trencher  a  haggis,  "  great  chieftain  of 
the  pudding  race,"  the  national  dish  which 
to  the  palate  of  the  true-born  Scot  surpasses 
all  that  the  South  can  offer.     At  this  festival 



some  prominent  Scottish  nobleman  presides, 
and  on  the  walls  appear  Scottish  emblems, 
"  the  ruddy  lion  rampt  in  gold,"  the  banners 
and  shields  of  Highland  clans,  with  clay- 
mores, dirks,  and  pistols.  Funds  are  collected 
for  the  relief  of  distress,  and  thanks  to 
Scottish  benevolence  many  a  humble  home 
has  been  kept  together,  and  many  a  decent 
body,  brought  low  by  misfortune,  has  been 
pensioned  and  enabled  to  spend  his  last 
days   in    peace.     It   is   an    interesting   sight 

clad  in  the  Stuart  tartan,  and  ready  at  their 
teacher's  word  to  sing  plaintive  Jacobite 
ballads  in  sweet  childish  trebles.  Their 
soft  notes  have  more  than  once  melted  the 
hearts  and  loosened  the  purse-strings  of 
Scottish  visitors.  Practical  good  sense  is 
shown  in  the  training  given. 

Scottish  gentlemen  of  position,  officers  of 
Scottish  regiments  and  others,  foregather  at 
the  Caledonian  Club,  30,  Charles  Street, 
St.  James's.  The  house  is  roomy  and  old- 
fashioned,  with  wide  corridors  and  lofty, 
spacious  apartments.  The  Club,  though 
only  established  in  1898,  numbers  over  a 
thousand    members,   and,    like    the    famous 


to  see  the  old  people  come  for  their  pensions 
once  a  month. 

Should  an  indigent  Scotsman  die  in 
London,  or  a  Scottish  soldier,  sailor  or 
marine  be  disabled  when  on  active  service, 
his  children  will  be  received  at  the  Royal 
Caledonian  Asylum,  which  has  now  its  head- 
quarters at  Bushey.  It  is  worth  while  to 
go  down  any  morning  and,  escorted  by  the 
kindly  Secretary,  see  the  kilted  boy  pipers 
march  up  and  down  skirling  bravely,  or 
watch  the  little  lads  dance  the  Reel,  the 
Highland  Fling,  and  the  Sword  Dance. 
There  are  about  ninety  of  them,  all  well-fed, 
well-cared-for,  well-taught,  and  bright-faced. 
Along  the  corridor,  on  the  girls'  side  of 
the  building,  are   some  si.xty   bonnie  lasses, 

giantess,  is  "  still  growing."  Ladies  are 
admitted  as  guests  daily  to  lunch  and  tea, 
and  once  or  twice  a  week  to  dinner.  The 
fine  reading-room  with  its  panels  of  dark 
green  silk  brocade  is  given  over  to  them, 
and  a  special  dining-room  is  reserved  for 
them  and  their  hosts. 

The  Scottish  Golf  Club  at  Wimbledon, 
founded  in  1865  by  a  group  of  London 
Scotsmen,  has  a  large  body  of  members, 
devotees  of  the  national  game. 

Seldom  is  a  London  winter  sufficiently 
rigorous  to  admit  of  curling,  but  when  the 
ice  bears,  the  members  of  the  Shinto  Curling 
Club  are  there,  ready  to  take  advantage  of 
it  for  this  exciting  game. 

The    Irishman   finds   in   London   his  own 



literary,  athletic,  political,  and  social  institu- 
tions. He  may  join  the  Irish  Literary 
Society,  and  stroll  down  to  its  headquarters, 
where  he  can  read  all  the  Irish  papers,  have 
luncheon,  tea,  or  dinner,  and  meet  his  friends, 
since  this  organisation  combines  the  advan- 
tages of  a  club  with  lectures,  concerts,  and 
other  attractions,  and  is  becoming  more  and 
more  the  chief  centre  of  social  intercourse 
for  the  Irish  in  London.  It  is  non-sectarian 
and  non-political,  and,  as  its  primary  object 
is  the  advancement  of  Irish  literature,  appeals 
to  all  parties.  To  it  belong  many  literary 
men  and  women  of  Irish  nationality.  Several 
of  these  are  members  of  a  kindred  association, 
the  Irish  Texts  Society  This  was  estab- 
lished to  publish,  with  English  translations, 
glossaries,  and  notes,  the  large  and  interesting 
body  of  Irish  MSS.  which   still  e.xists. 

The  most  Irish  of  the  Irish  belong  to 
a  flourishing  young  organisation  which  is 
friendly  in  its  relations  with  the  Irish 
Literary  Society,  though  quite  independent 
of  it.  I  allude  to  the  Gaelic  League,  which 
attracts  a  number  of  the  most  energetic 
and  practical  of  the  younger  generation,  and 
has  its  headquarters  at  Duke  Street,  Adelphi. 
Its  direct  object  is  to  extend  the  living 
Irish  language,  and  preserve  the  store  of  fine 
Irish  songs  and  traditions  that,  without  such 



timely  help,  might  die 
out;  indirectly  —  being 
based  on  principles  of 
national  self-reliance — 
it  stands  for  the  revival 
of  Irish  industries,  for 
all  that  is  at  once 
national  and  progres- 
sive. The  visitor  to  the 
Athenaium  Hall,  Tot- 
tenham Court  Road, 
will  find  on  any  Mon- 
day evening  some  two 
hundred  young  men 
and  women  assembled 
to  study  Gaelic.  There  is  always  a  large 
mi.xture  of  Irish  speakers  who  make  it  a 
point  of  honour  at  these  meetings  to  speak 
in  Gaelic  only.  Amongst  them  are  some  who, 
though  born  and  bred  in  London  and  speak- 
ing English  without  a  trace  of  accent,  are 
well  acquainted  with  the  sweet  native  tongue 
of  their  forefathers.  The  League  has  fifteen 
Irish  schools  in  the  Metropolis.  Recreation, 
on  traditional  lines,  is  not  lost  sight  of.  The 
Irish  dancing  classes  are  always  popular,  and 
in  addition  there  are  in  summer  pleasant 
Seilgi  and  Scoruidheachta,  or  excursions  and 
social  gatherings,  with  now  and  then  a  Pleraca 
or  dance,  while  an  annual  musical  festival  is 
held  at  the  Queen's  Hall.  This  has  a  large 
number  of  Gaelic  songs  on  the  programme, 
and  the  music  is  exclusively  traditional. 
This  festival  is  now  considered  the  central 
event  in  the  Irish  musical  year.  It  is  distinct 
from  the  Irish  concert  now  held  at  the 
Queen's  Hall  on  St.  Patrick's  Night,  which 
is  on  the  lines  of  the  popular  Scottish  con- 
cert on  St.  Andrew's  Night,  and  attracts  the 
same  kind  of  audience.  On  St.  Patrick's 
Day  there  is  a  wonderful  sale  of  so-called 
"  shamrock  "  in  the  London  streets — most 
of  it,  alas,  pure  clover  that  grew  probably 
in  Surrey  meadows.  It  is  often  decorated 
with  sparkling  bits  of  gold  foil,  and  to  the 
uninitiated  looks  cheap  at  a  penny  a  bunch. 
The  expert,  however,  notes  the  white  dot 
on  each  leaf  and  the  hairy  stems,  and  prefers 
to  get  his  button-hole  direct  from  Ireland, 
where,  indeed,  there  is  a  considerable  export 
trade  in  the  genuine  article  about  this  time. 
The  religious  service  in  honour  of  St.  Patrick 
at  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  Dockhead,  is 



unique,  the  hymns,  sermons,  and  responses 
being  respectively  in  Irish  and  Latin.  It 
attracts  a  crowded  congregation. 

The  GaeUc  Athletic  Association  possesses 
some  eight  or  nine  clubs,  mostly  in  North 
London,  devoted  to  hurling,  football,  and 
athletics  generally,  their  chief  grounds  being 
at  Muswell  Hill  and  Lea  Bridge.  They 
hold  no  matches  or  competitions  with 
English  clubs.  The  "G.A.A."  has  its  head- 
quarters in  Ireland,  and  Great  Britain  ranks 
as  one  of  its  provinces,    London  being  con- 

pected    later   to    play    All    Ireland    for   the 

In  Holborn  there  is  an  Irish  club  the 
members  of  which  are  civil  servants,  medical 
men  and  others ;  the  medical  men  having  also 
an  association  of  their  own  at  II,  Chandos 
Street,  one  of  the  objects  of  which  is  to 
secure  the  recognition  of  Irish  degrees  by 
London  hospitals,  which  in  distributing 
appointments  often  refuse  to  accept  Irish 
qualifications,  however  capable  may  be  the 
men  holding  them. 


sidered  a  county.  There  are  in  the  Metro- 
polis a  large  body  of  members,  of  whom 
over  200  belong  to  the  Hibernian  Athletic 
Club,  the  oldest  of  the  group,  which  was 
founded  in  1895.  Hurling,  as  practised  by 
Irish  teams,  differs  in  certain  respects  from 
hockey,  and  is  a  more  dashing  game  ;  while 
the  Gaelic  Athletic  Rules  for  football  prohibit 
handling,  pushing,  or  tripping,  which  are 
permitted  by  Rugbj'  rules.  When  the  grass 
is  very  wet,  however,  some  of  the  pla\'ers 
discard  boots  and  stockings.  The  various 
G.A.A.  clubs  in  London  challenge  each 
other,  and  then  the  winning  team  challenges 
some  other  county,  as,  for  example,  the 
Manchester  and  Liverpool  G.A.A.  The 
winner   in    this   latter   match   is   always   ex- 

While  the  various  Irish  counties  have  no 
such  societies  as  the  Scottish  for  bringing 
natives  together,  a  province,  Ulster,  has  its 
own  association.  It  owes  it  origin  to  the 
casual  encounter  of  two  or  three  enthusiastic 
Northerners  who  lamented  that,  proud  as 
was  the  position  of  their  compatriots  in 
London,  they  had  no  general  meeting  place. 
Its  inaugural  banquet  was  held  in  Januar}', 
1897,  when  many  recruits  joined  the  Society, 
and,  thanks  to  excellent  management,  the 
membership  has  since  greatly  increased. 
Balls,  concerts,  Cinderella  dances,  banquets, 
and  a  river  trip  are  among  the  entertainments 
offered.  The  headquarters  of  the  as.sociation 
are  at  the  Hotel  Cecil. 

In  the  days  of  Parnell,  the   Westminster 



tk«  -LONDON  KXLT.- 

•  Cymtw^.    \XVH.     Y  Ph<c«l  a  Hw«m«  Jmms,  JLA. 

:  m^ 

ar5ir--:»'i.-=it=:  -;  * 



Palace  Hotel  was  a  favourite  rendezvous 
of  the  Irish  Nationalist  Members  of  I'arlia- 
ment.  Nowadays,  however,  they  have  no 
recognised  centre,  but  hold  their  meetings 
sometimes  at  one  place,  sometimes  at  another. 
Some  of  them  have  town  houses,  others  live 
in  apartments,  others  again  chum  together 
and  have  rooms  or  chambers  in  common, 
whether  in  localities  like  Kensington  or 
Chelsea,  or  on  the  Surrey  side,  which,  if 
less  fashionable,  is  within  easier  reach  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  There  are,  it  may  be 
added,  many  purely  political  associations  for 
Irishmen  in  London. 

The  above  may  be  taken  as  covering 
Irish  Ireland  in  London,  but  there  is  also 
fashionable  Ireland,  which,  if  the  bull  may 
be  pardoned,  is  not  Irish  at  all,  since  it 
includes  wealthy  non-resident  Irish  landlords 
who,  for  the  most  part,  like  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire  and  the  Marquess  of  London- 
derry, are  Englishmen  born  and  bred,  but 
hold  estates  across  the  Channel.  Many 
wealthy  women,  however,  in  this  circle  do 
good  work  in  buying  Irish  manufactures, 
and  no  trousseau  of  an  aristocratic  bride 
is  complete  unless  the  dainty  stitchery,  the 
fairy-like  embroidery,  and  the  costly  lace 
are  provided  by  workers  in  some  Irish 
convent.  The  Irish  Peasantry  Society  at 
Stamford  Street,  Blackfriars,  offers  a  free 
education  to  a  certain  number  of  the 
London    born    children     of     Irish     parents. 

preference  being  given  to  those  whose  fathers 
were  soldiers  or  sailors.  This  Association 
also  offers  small  prizes  in  Ireland  for  the 
best  kept  cottages. 

Since  the  establishment  of  the  Irish  Guards 
by  Queen  Victoria,  in  compliment  to  Irish 
valour  in  South  Africa,  the  uniform  and  the 
flat  cap  with  its  green  band  have  become 
familiar  in  the  London  streets.  The  three 
figures  in  our  photographic  illustration  on 
page  270  are  shown  standing  in  front  of  a 
coat  of  arms  affixed  to  a  wall  in  the  Tower 
of  London.  There  is  also  a  well-known  Irish 
Volunteer  regiment,  the  London  Irish  Rifles, 
already  mentioned  in  the  article  on  "  Volun- 
teer London." 

The  Welsh  inhabitants  of  London,  though 
they  number  some  fifty  thousand,  have  no 
such  central  meeting  places  as  the  Scots 
and  Irish.  True,  they  possess  an  admirable 
literary  society,  the  Cymmrodorion,  which 
gives  aid  to  necessitous  members  of  the 
community,  but  Welsh  life  in  London 
centres  chiefly  in  the  chapels,  and  its 
activities  for  the  most  part  are  religious,  or, 
at  any  rate,  connected  with  religion.  To 
gain  some  idea  of  its  true  inwardness,  one 
cannot  do  better  than  attend  the  New 
Jewin  Chapel  or  the  Welsh  Tabernacle  in 
the  Pentonville  Road  some  Sunday  evening 
when  a  popular  preacher  has  come  up  to 
address  the  congregation.  The  stranger  will 
find  the  building  thronged  with  well-dressed 
people,  for  the  most  part  prosperous  business 
men  and  women,  the  number  of  the  former 
sex  being  remarkable.  The  majority  are 
Calvinistic  Methodists,  for  to  this  body 
the  bulk  of  the  London  Welsh  population 
belong,  though  there  are  also  many  Welsh 
Congregationalists,  Baptists,  and  Wesleyans 
in  the  capital,  while  the  Established  Church 
finds  a  certain  number  of  adherents.  The 
sermon,  the  hymns,  the  announcements  are 
all  in  Welsh,  so  that  the  visitor  feels  himself 
an  outsider  and  a  foreigner,  despite  the 
familiar  aspect  of  everyone  and  everything. 
As  might  be  e.xpected  where  a  race  is  .so 
musical,  the  congregational  singing  is  ex- 
ceptionally good.  The  organist  at  the  Welsh 
Tabernacle,  Mrs.  Frances  Rees-Rowlands,  is 
conductress  of  the  London  Kymric  Ladies' 
Choir,  of  which  Lady  Puleston  is  president. 
The  members  are  selected  from  all  the  Welsh 



chapels,  the  best  voices  only  being  picked 
out,  with  the  result  that  this  choir  was 
awarded  the  first  and  second  prizes  at  the 
Royal  National  Eisteddfod  of  Wales,  and 
has  appeared  before  Royalty.  All  the  singers 
are  dressed  in  their  national  costume,  with 
the  Welshwoman's  characteristic  hat. 

On  St.  David's  Eve  Welsh  people  have 
special  services  at  the  City  Temple  and 
St.  Paul's  ;  and  on  St.  David's  Day,  though 
few  of  them  sport  the  leek  as  the  Irish 
sport  the  shamrock,  they  eat  it  at  their 
annual  dinner  in  the  form  of  Cawl  Cenin, 
a  favourite  soup.  The  Welsh  in  London 
possess  a  political  society,  the  Cymru  Fydd, 
which  is  Radical  in  its  tendencies,  and  to 
which    most    of    the    Welsh     Members    of 

Parliament  belong.  Moreover,  they  have  a 
newspaper  of  their  own  printed  partly  in 
their  own  language,  and  bearing  the  title  of 
The  London  Welshman  {Cymro  Llundain). 
Thrifty,  cleanly,  industrious,  neighbourly 
and  united,  the  London  Welsh  form  an 
important  and  valuable  addition  to  the 

Indeed,  the  Scottish,,  and  Welsh 
elements  do  and  have  done  much  towards 
making  London  a  world  city,  and  in  leaven- 
ing the  Anglo-Saxons  with  Celtic  impetuosity 
and  mental  alertness  have,  with  other  causes, 
given  to  metropolitans  a  width  of  outlook 
and  a  receptivity  not  to  be  found  in  pro- 
vincial towns  where  these  elements  do  not 
bulk  as  largely  or  act  as  potently. 







IF  one  could  only  hover  in  a  balloon  over 
Central  London  as  night  falls  !  To  see, 
as  the  man  with  the  long  stick  makes 
his  round  and  switches  are  turned  on  and 
levers  pulled  behind  the  scenes,  the  trans- 
formation scene  gradually  unfold  and  the 
myriad  lights  spurt  out  of  the  grey  gloom 
beneath:  the  sinuous  Thames 
become  outhned  by  moonlike 
arc  lamps  ;  the  bridges  start 
up  as  if  set  pieces  of  fire- 
works ;  Leicester  Square 
assert  itself  as  the  hub  of 
Pleasure  London  in  a  blaze 
of  bluish  -  white  refulgence, 
more  than  ever  eclipsmg  its 
sedate  neighbour,  Trafalgar 
Square  ;  long  lines  of  stars 
shoot  out  from  the  busy, 
pulsing  heart  below,  radiating 
in  all  directions,  beginning 
with  steady  white  orbs  and 
fading  away  in  glimmering 
specks  of  yellowish  luminosity 
— what  a  picture  it  would  be ! 
Innumerable  are  the  lights 
of  London  and  well-nitjh  in- 


conceivably  vast  is  the  system  by  which 
they  are  produced  and  maintained.  Scores 
of  private  companies,  as  well  as  a  number 
of  public  bodies,  including  the  County 
Council,  are  engaged  in  the  work ;  the  capital 
sunk  in  it  is  fabulous  in  amount ;  and  the 
pipes  and  cables  connected  with  it  form  an 
amazingly  complex  subter- 
ranean network,  of  which 
Londoners  get  a  glimpse 
when  the  streets  are  "  up." 

Electricity  is  generated  in 
the  Metropolis  at  scores  of 
points.  The  oldest  company 
distributing  the  energy  is  the 
London  Electric  Supply  Cor- 
poration, whose  station  at 
Deptford  was  long  the  largest 
in  the  world.  Whether  it  is 
now  or  not,  its  capacity  is 
enormous.  To  obtain  even 
a  superficial  knowledge  of 
the  lighting  of  London  these 
works  must  be  visited.  Here 
we  are,  then.  A  bewildering 
maze  of  engines  and 
machinery     fills     the     large 



engine  house.  To  the  right  is  the  older 
plant  —  powerful  engines  connected  to 
dynamos  by  rope  pulleys.  To  the  left  are 
some  of  the  newer  engines,  coupled  direct 
to  huge  dynamos  which  are  revolving  so 
rapidly  and  noiselessly  that  but  for  the 
little  sparks  that  come  and  go  they  would 
seem  to  be  motionless.  At  present  —  it 
is  1 1  a.m.,  with  a  bright  sky  overhead  — 
there  is  a  light  load  on,  not  much  electricity 
is  being  consumed.  Hence  there  are  only 
two   engines   running.     As   the   demand  in- 

etc,  of  the  mysterious  current  that  is  passing 
through  the  cables  below,  and  the  handles 
enable  them  to  regulate  it.  Though  they 
seem  to  have  it  completely  in  harness, 
this  is  the  most  dangerous  part  of  the 

Among  the  municipal  corporations  which 
supply  electricity  St.  Pancras  and  Shoreditch 
occupy  important  positions.  Of  the  London 
authorities  St.  Pancras  led  the  way  in  open- 
ing a  station,  while  Shoreditch  was  the  first 
borough   in   the   country   to   combine   on   a 


creases  others  will  be  started  to  keep  pace 
with  it.  There  is  no  drawing  on  reserves 
when  the  rush  comes  about  dusk,  as  at  a 
gas  works.  As  electricity  is  wanted  so  it 
must  be  generated  and  supplied,  because 
storing  it,  while  possible,  is  not  commercially 
practicable.  And,  as  a  consequence,  some 
engines  are  always  running. 

On  a  gallery  to  the  left  the  switch-board 
is  situated.  It  has  as  many  rows  of  dials 
as  a  clockmaker's  shop,  and  underneath  arc 
ranged  levers  like  those  in  the  signal  cabin 
on  the  iron  road.  The  quivering  hands  of 
the  gauges  show  the  attendants  the  pressure. 

large  scale  the  destruction  of  dust  and  refuse 
with  the  production  of  electricity.  The  two 
things  often  go  hand  in  hand  now.  Still, 
to  Shoreditch  is  due  the  credit  which  should 
always  be  given  to  the  pioneer. 

Let  us  take  a  peep  at  its  station.  Begin 
at  the  yard,  into  which  the  refuse — household, 
trade,  and  street^is  brought.  Little  moun- 
tains of  clinkers  from  the  furnaces  are  here 
a  feature  of  the  scenery.  The  economic 
disposal  of  this  waste  is  one  of  the  most 
important  problems  connected  with  the 
undertaking — which  is  not  creditable  to  us 
as  a  commercial  nation.     Among  it,  for  one 



thing,   are   some   articles    which  would    pass 
as  relics  from  Pompeii. 

Cross  the  yard,  and  we  are  at  the  lift  which 
raises  the  rubbish  to  the  top  of  the  furnaces 
(already  described  in  the  article  on  "  London's 
Toilet  ").  Through  the  engine  house,  along  the 
gallery  in  front  of  an  elaborate  switch-board, 
and  into  another  room  containing  a  switch- 
board for  public  lighting.  If  you  pulled 
down  one  of  those  levers  projecting  from  it, 
all  the  arc  lamps  on  one  side  of  a  street 
would  go  out.  The  lights  are,  except  when 
fog  envelops  the  borough,  switched  on  and 
off  according  to  a  time  table.  And  that 
points  to  the  coming  doom  of  the  man  with 
the  stick  as  well  as  of  the  lamp  cleaner  with 
his  light,  portable  ladder.  Electric  lamps,  of 
course,  do  not  need  their  attention.  Both 
will  be  superseded  by  the  now  familiar 
figure  who  supplies  the  arc  lamps  with 
carbon,  which  is  consumed  in  the  production 
of  the  light. 

Electricity  is  coming  more  and  more  into 
use  in  London  for  lighting.  Hundreds  of 
miles  of  streets  are  laid  with  cables,  and  yet 
it  is  impossible  to  walk  very  far  without 
seeing  more  being  put  down.  The  road  is 
up.  In  the  gutter  stands  a  huge  reel  of 
leaden  cable.  Presently  this  is  rolled  nearer 
the  hole,  and  then  the  passers-by  stop  and 
gaze  expectantly.  At  last  they  are  going 
to  behold  that  famous  little  dog  which  rushes 
through  the  earthenware  pipe  with  a  string 
tied  to  its  tail  and  thus  makes  a  connection 
between  two  lengths.  But,  alas  I  this 
sagacious  animal  is  purely  mythical.  No 
dog  is  used,  no  member  of  the  brute 
creation,  though  there  is  a  tradition  that 
a  rat  was  once  pressed  into  service,  and 
that  to  ensure  all  possible  speed  a  ferret 
was  sent  after  it  to  tell  it  to  hurry  up. 
Instead  of  resorting  to  any  device  of  this 
kind,  the  men  put  an  ordinary  drain  rod 
through  the  pipe.  To  the  end  of  this  very 
prosaic  tool  a  string  is  attached,  and  to  the 
end  of  the  string  a  rope,  and  to  the  end 
of  the  rope  the  beginning  of  the  cable.  It 
is  all  very  simple.  Londoners,  however,  are 
likely  to  see  much  of  it  in  the  near  future. 

Gas  is  supplied  to  the  great  city  mostly 
by  two  corporations.  One,  the  Gas  Light 
and  Coke  Company,  has  more  than  sixty 
square  miles  of  territory  north  of  the  Thames 

and  makes,  in  round  figures,  22,21 
cubic  feet  of  gas  per  annum.  Its  works  are 
scattered  all  over  London,  though  the  output 
at  Beckton  is  as  large  as  at  all  the  others 
combined.  The  other  great  company  is 
the  South  Metropolitan,  which  supplies  an 
enormous  area  on  the  south  side  of  the  river 
with  11,272,916,000  cubic  feet  per  annum. 
These  companies,  with  the  Commercial  Com- 
pany, supply  most  of  the  gas  u.sed  for  street 
lighting,  as  well  as  that  consumed  by  the 
"  flares  "  on  theatres  and  other  public  build- 
ings. There  are,  however,  a  number  of  minor 
companies — the  Crystal  Palace,  the  Totten- 
ham, the  West  Ham,  the  Wandsworth  and 
District,  and  others. 

To  see  one  of  the  sources  of  the  old- 
fashioned  light  we  cannot  do  better  than 
journey  up  the  Old  Kent  Road  to  the 
headquarters  of  the  South  Metropolitan 
Gas  Company.  Through  the  gateway  past 
towers,  stacks  of  pipes,  heaps  of  coke,  shops 
in  which  lamp-repairing  and  other  work  is 
being  carried  on,  and  enormous  gas-holders, 
and,   behold !    the    egg   stage    of   gas-mak- 

ing—  taking     in     the     coal. 



Surrey  Canal,  to  our  side  of  which 
three  barges  are  moored.  High  above, 
a  number  of  cranes.  With  a  rattle  as  the 
chain  runs  over  the  wheel  at  the  end  of  the 
arm,  an  iron  tub  descends,  lights  on  a  heap 
of  slack  in  the  hold  of  one  of  the  craft, 
opens  like  a  pair  of  scissors,  and  closes  on 
the  top  of  the  mass.  Then  a  signal,  and 
away  the  big  bucket  swings  aloft.  It  is  as 
if  a  giant's  arm  had  reached  down  and  seized 
a  handful.  The  illustration  on  page  280 
shows  the  coal  being  taken  in  at  the 
Vauxhall  works  of  the  South  Metropolitan 
Gas  Company. 

Next,  the  retorts — the  old  type  of  retorts, 
fed  by  hand,  and  not  the  modern  gas-extract- 
ing chambers  that  are  stoked  by  machinery, 
though  there  are  some  of  these  in  the  works. 
And  now  it  is  hot,  scorchingly  hot.  Mounted 
on  a  platform  that  runs  on  rails,  a  half-naked 
stoker,  black,  shiny,  arms  and  face  so  beaded 
with  perspiration  that  they  catch  and  hold 
every  speck  of  dust,  stands  in  front  of  one 
of  a  whole  series  of  doors  something  like 
those  of  an  ordinary  steam  boiler,  from  the 
top  of  each  of  which  a  pipe  runs  upwards. 
Mopping  his  brow  with  one  hand,  he  takes 




a  light  from  a  jet 
close  by,  and  ap- 
plies it  to  the 
door.  Pop  !  A 
flame  bursts  out 
all  round  it,  burns 
for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then 
dies  out.  That 
gets  rid  of  the 
gas  in  the  retort. 

And  now  there 
is  a  blinding, 
searing  glare  of 
light  that  casts 
the  muscular 
worker  into  vivid 
relief.      He   has 

thrown  the  door  open. 
One  glance,  with  his 
hands  shading  his  eyes, 
and,  having  cleared  the 
opening  of  the  pipe  of 
the  tar  which  has  been 
deposited  in  it,  he  plunges 
a  rake  into  the  retort, 
and  draws  out  the  car- 
bonised contents,  from 
which  smoke  ascends  in 
clouds  as  they  fall  down 
between  the  platform  and 
the  retorts  on  to  sloping 
iron  shelves  below  where 
we  stand,  there  to  have 
water  played  on  them 
and  assume  the  appearance  of  the  coke  of 
commerce.  Soon  the  retort  is  empty,  an 
incandescent  tube,  whose  sides  are  white  with 
the  intensity  of  the  heat. 

Perspiration  pours  from  the  silhouetted 
figure  of  the  stoker.  You  can  see  it  oozing 
out  of  him  in  great  beads.  But  on  !  on  ! 
there  is  no  time  to  lose.  The  retort  must 
be  charged  speedily,  else  the  cold  air  will 
bring  about  a  certain  loss  of  efficiency.  So 
he  wheels  round  to  a  long  scoop  like  an 
enormous  cheese  taster  that  has  been  filled 
with  coal  from  a  heap  in  the  rear.  By  the 
help  of  his  assistants,  he  raises  the  end  of 
this  implement  to  the  mouth  of  the  retort, 
runs  it  in  and  turns  it  over,  thus  discharging 
the  contents.  Again  and  again  does  he 
repeat  this  operation  till  the  retort  is  charged. 

There !  the  work  is  done  —  done  for  six 
hours.  Remember,  however,  that  only  one- 
half  of  the  process  has  been  visible  to  us. 
An  exact  duplicate  of  the  scene  we  have  wit- 
nessed has  taken  place  on  the  other  side, 
for  the  retorts  are  drawn  and  filled  from 
both  ends.  And,  of  course,  some  of  the  re- 
torts are  emptied  and  fed  without  using  the 
movable  platform,  as  shown  in  the  illustra- 
tion on  page  276. 

We  cannot  follow  the  gas  from  the  retorts 
to  the  mains.  That  were  too  long  a 
journey.  Enough  that  it  is  drawn  off  by 
engines,  known  as  "  exhausters,"  which 
send  it  through  the  works— through  plant 
where  it  is  cooled,  washed,  etc.  ;  through 
the  meters,  which  are  of  the  size  that  the 
harassed  householder  sometimes  sees  in  his 
dreams  at  the  end  of  the 
Christmas  quarter  (they 
are  as  big  as  a  railway 
carriage  and  register  up 
to  hundreds  of  millions 
of  cubic  feet  on  seven 
dials) ;  and,  lastly,  into 
the  huge,  towering  gas- 
holders, the  largest  of 
which — the  famous  tele- 
scopic "Jumbo" — has  a 
capacity  of  5,500,000 
feet.  Vast  as  this 
monster  is,  however, 
there  are  two  larger 
at  the  South  Metro- 
politan     Company's 


works  on  Green- 
wich Marshes 
One  of  these  is 
actually  double 
the  size  of 
"  Jumbo  "  ! 

I<"rom  the  huge 
holders  the  gas 
passes,  at  a  pres- 
sure regulated  just 
inside  the  gates, 
into  the  mains,  to 
be  distributed 
among  hundreds 
of  thousands  of 
customers.  Within 
recent  years  these 
have    increased 




enormously.  Thanks  to  that  beneficial  in- 
vention, the  coin-freed  meter,  gas  companies 
have  tapped  a  new  public — a  public  which 
purchases  gas  by  the  pennyworth  ;  and  now 
consumers  of  this  class  are  numbered  by 
the  million  and  are  being  added  to  daily. 
The  South  Metropolitan  Company  alone  has 
more  than  120,000  slot  meters  in  use,  and 
is  installing  others  at  the  rate  of  250  or  300 
per  week. 

Not  that  these  figures  repre.sent  so  many 

Round  that  special  instrument  tragedy  and 
comedy  centre.  It  gives  the  gas  industry 
a  human  interest  which  it  did  not  possess  in 
the  old  days.  Let  us  take  a  short  walk  with 
one  of  the  officials  who  collect  the  coppers 
from  meters  of  this  class.  Before  we  reach 
his  round — and  matters  are  so  arranged  that 
every  person  who  buys  gas  by  the  penny- 
worth is  visited  once  every  five  weeks — he 
tells  of  a  Mrs.  Jones  who  sent  a  message 
post-haste  to  the  works  the  other  day.     That 


new  customers.  No  ;  some  people  who  feel 
the  pinch  of  poverty  acutely  clear  out  their 
ordinary  meter  h\d  get  a  slot  one  in  its  place. 
The  advantage  is  obvious.  They  pay  as 
they  go  on.  There  is  no  bill  running  up, 
no  looking  forward  with  anxiety  to  the  end 
of  the  quarter,  no  risk  of  receiving  the  com- 
pany's terrible  ultimatum,  "  Pay  up,  or  your 
gas  will  be  cut  off."  It  is  true  that  this 
threat  is  not  often  carried  out,  even  when 
an  unfortunate  consumer  cannot  scrape 
together  enough  to  wipe  off  the  debt ;  but 
how  many  thousands  there  are  in  this  great 
city  who  expect  to  hear  it  four  times  a 
year !  In  general,  however,  the  installing  of 
a  slot  meter  means  the  gaining  of  a  new 

message,  as  delivered  accurately  enough  by 
her  daughter,  was  this  : — - 

"  i\Iother  wants  you  to  send  a  man  to  open 
our  meter  at  once.  She's  put  some  money 
in,  and  she  can't  get  father's  dinner." 

Now  the  collector  begins  to  make  his  calls. 
For  a  while  he  proceeds  without  incident ; 
but  presently  he  picks  out  a  two-shilling 
piece  from  among  a  lot  of  coppers.  What  is  it 
doing  in  that  galley  ?  Accident  ?  Ignorance 
of  the  principle  of  the  meter  ?  No ;  the 
occupier  of  the  house  deliberately  put  it 
there  to  prevent  herself  from  spending  it. 
So  she  is  not  surprised  when  the  collector 
hands  her  is.  iid.  Slot  meters,  that  official 
observes  afterwards,  are  very  popular  as 
money  boxes. 




And  SO  we  go  on  till  we  come  to  an  un- 
occupied house,  the  late  tenant  of  which 
has  not  given  the  gas  company  notice  of 
removal.  Perhaps  the  collector  will  find 
that  he  has   been   anticipated — that   one   of 

those  ingenious  and  enterprising  gentry 
who  make  a  speciality  of  entering  empty 
dwellings  and  breaking  open  slot  meters 
has  been  here  before  him.  But  no ;  the 
money  is  safe. 

By  this  time  the  collector  is  burdened 
with  copper.  We  will  satisfy  our  curiosity 
as  to  how  he  gets  rid  of  his  load,  and  then 
will  leave  him.  There  proves  to  be  no  great 
mystery  about  the  matter,  after  all.  He  has 
shopkeepers  who  take  the  bronze  from  him 
in  small  quantities,  and  such  as  he  cannot 
dispose  of  in  this  way  he  leaves  at  a  branch 
of  the  company's  bank. 

But  the  mass  of  coin  he  and  his  fellow 
collectors — nearly  a  hundred  in  all — handle 
in  the  course  of  a  year  is  enormous.  Con- 
ceive, if  you  can,  ;^320,ooo,  the  takings  per 
annum  from  the  slot  meters,  in  pennies. 
Seven  hundred  and  fifteen  tons  of  bronze ! 

What  mind  can  grasp  the  vastness  and 
the  infinite  ramifications  of  the  lighting 
system  of  London  ?  None.  The  subject 
is  too  large,  too  complicated,  and  is  yearly 
becoming  larger  and  more  complicated. 





TO  repeat  a  highly  respectable  platitude — 
London  is  one  vast  Vanity  Fair.  You 
can  walk  about  and  see  most  of  its 
shows  and  sideshows  for  nothing,  but  there 
are  proprietorial  sideshows  in  it  that  you 
cannot  see  without  first  paying  a  penny  at 
the  door  or  putting  at  least  a  halfpenny  into 
the  slot. 

This  "  slot "  variety  is  a  recent  development, 
and  managers  of  the  older  sideshows  find  it 
such  a  formidable  competitor  that  they  adopt 
it  now  as  a  supplement  to  their  customary 
exhibits  ;  hence  the  pleasure-seeker  is  tempted 
in  some  busy  London  thoroughfare  by  a 
display  of  automatic  picture  machines  ranged 
round  an  open-fronted  shop,  at  the  rear 
of  which  a  shooting  range  yawns  like  a 
gigantic  baker's  oven,  with  gas  jets  shining  in 
the  depths  of  it ;  while  for  a  penny  paid  to 
a  vociferous  showman  he  can  go  upstairs  and 
admire  a  bearded  lady  seated  in  an  otherwise 
empty  drawing-room,  and  look  into  the  un- 
furnished dining-room  where,  for  his  delight, 
three  reputed  Africans  lick  red-hot  pokers 
that  sizzle  on  their  tongues,  and  quaff  boiling 
lead  out  of  rusty  ladles  with  manifestations 
of  keen  enjoyment. 
These  upstairs  exhibitions  do  not  commence, 

as  a  rule,  until  evening,  so  if  you  are  bent  on 
a  round  of  visits  to  Sideshow  London  you 
begin  with  the  automatic  shows,  the  shooting 
galleries,  and  the  penny  waxworks,  which  are 
open  all  day. 

Shops  devoted  wholly  to  automatic  shows 
have  multiplied  rapidly,  and  are  as  popular  in 
Blackwall,  Kentish  Town,  and  Lambeth,  as  in 
Oxford  Street  and  the  more  select  ways  of 
the  West.  Some  drape  their  doors  with 
crimson  hangings  and  are  ornately  decorated 
inside,  others  are  unadorned  to  very  bleak- 
ness ;  but  it  is  a  rare  thing  to  see  any  of  them 
without  visitors,  and  of  an  evening  they  are 
all  crowded. 

The  public  enter  gratis  and,  sooner  or  later, 
succumb  to  the  fascinations  of  one  or  other  of 
the  machines,  and  drop  in  a  penny  or  a  half- 
penny as  the  case  may  be,  to  set  little  leaden 
figures  under  glass  playing  cricket  or  foot- 
ball, or  peer  down  a  glazed  opening  and  turn 
a  handle  to  witness,  in  a  series  of  biograph 
views,  a  scene  from  a  familiar  melodrama,  the 
changing  of  the  guard  at  Buckingham  Palace, 
or  some  ludicrous  episode  of  domestic  life. 

Suppose,  however,  you  make  Piccadilly 
Circus  your  starting  point,  and,  pacing  one  of 
the  most  fashionable  streets  thereabouts,  drop 



into  a  typical  West-End  sideshow  of  more 
catholic  pretensions. 

It  is  a  frontless  shop  in  which  well-dressed 
people  stroll  among  groves  of  automatic 
machines  ;  at  intervals  a  coin  rattles  into 
a  slot  and  the  whirr  of  the  handle  turning 
breaks  the  quiet  of  the  place,  or  the  sharp 
crack  of  a  rifle  sounds  from  the  select  shoot- 
ing gallery  at  the  end,  where  a  marksman 
is  disbursing  a  penny  on  two  shots  at  the 

Near  the  shooting  gallery  is  a  curtained 

appears  on  a  cramped  stage  to  astonish  all 
beholders  with  tricks  of  parlour  magic. 

On  your  way  to  this  sideshow,  if  in  your 
north-west  passage  you  navigated  the  sombre 
old  backwaters  of  Bloomsbury,  it  is  more 
than  likely  that,  as  you  turned  into  Russell 
Square,  }'ou  were  greeted  by  reedy  tootlings 
and  that  quavering  nasal  chatter  that  is  the 
birthright  of  Punch,  and  there  you  beheld  his 
striped  theatre  erected  against  the  railings 
and  a  semi-circle  of  auditors,  mostly  juvenile, 
spreading  out  before  it. 


doorway,  with  "  Pay  here  "  on  a  label  pinned 
to  the  curtain,  and  if  )-ou  hand  sixpence  to 
the  lecturer  waiting  there  he  will  usher  you 
into  a  small  lobby  and  call  your  attention  to 
the  beauties  of  a  huge  painting  that  is  less 
patronised  by  daylight  critics  than  by  young 
and  elderly  connoisseurs  who  swagger  in 
and  out  in  evening  dress  after  the  gas  is 

Across  London,  in  the  north-west,  is  a 
similar  sideshow,  larger  but  less  aristocratic, 
noisy  with  the  jolly  ripple  and  rumble  of 
a  piano  playing  popular  airs  by  machinery, 
and  possessing,  instead  of  the  shooting 
gallery,   a   dapper  juggler   who    periodically 

Of  course,  you  have  known  his  prepos- 
terous drama  by  heart  since  childhood,  yet 
you  were  constrained  to  linger  shamefacedly 
and  laugh  at  it  again,  looking  over  the 
children's  heads,  and  when  the  solemn  show- 
man, piping  and  thumping  his  drum,  shook 
his  little  bag  insinuatingly  under  your  chin, 
your  hand  went  involuntarily  to  your  pocket 
for  old  remembrance  sake. 

Perhaps,  if  you  are  a  well-to-do  father  or 
grandfather,  when  the  performance  ended  and 
the  other  showman  was  walking  off  with  the 
theatre,  you  stopped  the  man  with  the  drum 
and  retained  Mr.  Punch  and  his  company  as 
a  sideshow  for  an  imminent  children's  party  ; 



in  which  event  there 
will  be  work  to  do  in 
the  way  of  rehabilitating 
the  puppets  to-night 
when  the  show  gets 

There  are  peripatetic 
waxworks  that  wander 
about  London  restlessly 
and,  conscious  of  their 
own  artistic  d  e- 
ficiencies,  occasionally 
acquire  alien  attractions 
by  leaguing  themselves 
with  a  cheap  palmist  or 
phrenologist  and  keep- 
ing him  on  tap,  as  it 
were,  in  a  bower  among 
the  effigies.  But  our 
half-dozen  permanent 
penny  waxworks  are 
superior  to  this,  and 
we    will    take    a    peep 

at  a  typical  one  of  them.  The  window 
tempting  you  with  a  waxwork 
soothing  a  wounded  waxwork  soldier  by 
showing  him  a  bottle  of  physic,  you  pay 
at   the    turnstile    in    the   doorway,    the    lady 



attendant  discontinuing  a  fantasia  on  the 
barrel  organ  to  take  your  penny. 

The  shop  and  the  floors  above  are  rich  in 
waxen  allegories  symbolising  the  might  of 
the  British  Empire  ;  also  in  wax  models  01 
statesmen,  warriors,  thinkers,  with  here  and 
there  distributed  among  them  renowned 
ruffians  who  have  been  crowded  out  of  the 
Chamber  of  Horrors,  which  galaxy  of  great 
criminals  is  on  the  third  floor  here,  though  in 
some  of  the  other  waxworks  it  is  down  in  the 
basement,  and  gains  an  additional  horror 
from  its  situation. 

The  chief  object  in  the  principal  room  is  a 
waxwork  Cabinet  Meeting,  obviously  called 
together  at  a  supreme  crisis,  for  three 
Ministers  have  risen  to  speak  simultaneously, 
and  a  choice  collection  of  British  generals  is 
crowded  into  a  tight  corner  in  the  immediate 
background  ready  for  any  emergency.  You 
may  not  recognise  everybody,  but  that 
is  immaterial,  as  each  gentleman  has  his 
name  written  on  a  scrap  of  paper  pinned 
to  his  chest. 

As  for  the  shooting  galleries,  like  the 
automatic  shows  they  are  everywhere.  A 
few  are  attached  to  cutlers'  shops  ;  a  few  to 
barbers'  shops,  where  customers  improve  their 
marksmanship  while  they  wait  to  be  shaved  ; 
most    of   them,    however,     are    independent 




of  such  trade  connections.  The  primitive  type 
with  rows  of  bottles  for  targets  still  survives, 
but  the  better  equipped,  thoroughly  modern- 
ised gallery  is  more  generally  favoured,  and 
not  infrequently  flourishes  under  the  special 
patronage  of  local  rifle  associations. 

There  is  one  of  this  latter  class  at  Islington  ; 
it  is  a  fixture  there  all  the  year  round,  and  at 
the  right  time  of  year  the  proprietor  enlarges 
his  enterprise  by  engaging  travelling  showmen 
to  set  up  their  shows  in  his  first-floor  apart- 

The  right  time 
of  year  is  in  the 
winter.  Through- 
out the  summer 
living  skeletons, 
midget  families, 
and  such  like 
celebrities  tour 
about  in  caravans 
end  are  to  be 
viewed  in  tents 
at  country  fairs  ; 
but  winter  drives 
them  into 
London  and  the 
big  provincial 

Here     their 

showmen  sometimes  hire  untenanted  shops 
at  low  rentals  till  they  are  re-let,  and  run 
shows  on  their  own  account ;  oftener  they 
are  glad  to  get  engagements  for  successive 
weeks  at  regular  show  places,  such  as  the 
two  at  Islington,  those  in  Whitechapel, 
in  Kilburn,  in  Deptford,  or  in  Canning 

Wherefore,  while  the  Cattle  Show  and 
later  the  World's  Fair  are  in  progress 
at  the  Agricultural  Hall,  you  may  pay 
your  penny  and  be  entertained  over  the 
shooting  gallery  at  Islington  by  a  pair  01 
Oriental  jugglers  in  one  room,  and  in  the 
other  by  a  gentleman  and  his  wife  who 
are  tattooed  from  necks  to  heels  with 
ingenious  designs  in  half  the  colours  of 
the  rainbow. 

Going    again    next    week    you    find   the 
front    room    appropriated    to    an    elegant 
"  electric  lady,"  who  communicates  electric 
shocks  to  those  who  touch  her ;  while  the 
back  room   is   the  happy   hunting  ground 
of  a  noble    savage.      Good    living  and    little 
exercise  incline  him  to  obesity,  but  he  exerts 
himself  in  a  war  dance  when  enough  pennj' 
spectators  are  present,  and  performs  the  feat 
that    has    won    for    him    the    proud    title    of 
"  The   Lion-jawed  Man."     Having  crammed 
four  bones  as  large  as  human  fingers  cross- 
wise  in    between    his    teeth,   he   inserts   the 




mouth  of  a  tankard  into  his  own,  closes 
his  thick  lips  all  round  it  like  a  sucker, 
and  thus  holding-  it  defies  mankind  at  large 
to  pull   it  out. 

During  this  same  period  the  Whitechapel 
establishment  is  graced  by  the  presence  of 
a  fat  woman  of  stupendous  girth  and  weight. 
Here  the  shows  are  held  in  the  shop  itself,  the 
rearward  half  of  it  being  temporarily  curtained 
off  just  now  and  transformed  into  a  living- 
room  for  the  stout  lady,  she  taking  no 
pleasure  in  going  up  and  down  stairs. 

Her  showman  shouts 
at  the  door,  while  one 
of  his  subordinates 
manipulates  the  barrel 
organ  with  masterly 
skill  ;  and  as  soon  as 
-a   satisfactory    percent- 

Next  week  she  is  bewitching:  Islington ; 
the  tattooed  people  have  transferred  them- 
selves to  Canning  Town  ;  and  the  noble  savage 
is  earning  fresh  laurels  with  his  tankard  in 
the  wilds  of  Kilburn. 

One  of  the  regular  show  shops  has  a  weird 
predilection  for  dead  skeletons.  Two  or 
three  of  them  have  a  touching  belief  in  the 
attractiveness  of  freaks  preserved  in  spirits ; 
and  these  are  plentiful,  whereas  the  living 
article  is  by  way  of  becoming  scarce  in 
London,  for  good  live  freaks  gravitate  to 
Barnum's  nowadays 
unless  a  minor  show- 
man is  lucky  enough 
to  hear  of  them  in 
time  and  intercept 
them.  It  is  true  you 
may    e\en    yet    be 

A    FAT   LADV. 

age  of  the  crowd  outside  has  come  in  and 
paid  its  pennies,  the  organist  stops  to  breathe, 
and  the  showman,  posing  by  the  drapery 
that  conceals  his  treasure,  cries  impressively, 
"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  young  lady  will 
now  appear ! " 

She  is  always  a  "young  lady,"  whatever  her 
age  may  be,  and  she  dawns  on  our  expectant 
eyes  from  between  the  curtains,  gliding  with 
a  solid  and  queenly  dignity  that  is  only 
slightly  marred  by  the  fact  that  she  carries 
an  oyster  shell  in  which  she  will  presently  take 
a  collection  for  her  private  exchequer,  the 
taking  of  private  collections  being  a  weakness 
inherent  in  all  freaks  and  living  sideshows 
from  time   immemorial. 

startled  by  seeing  in  a  shop  window  a 
presentment  of  an  elephant-headed  man 
larger  than  life,  with  one  leg  elephantine 
and  the  other  human,  and  a  writhing  trunk 
of  the  first  water ;  but  inside  you  discover 
that  he  dwindles  to  a  leathery-looking  object 
pickled  in  a  glass  jar,  and  having  the 
appearance  of  a  fossilised  small  boy  playing 
a  flageolet. 

Nevertheless  there  was  once  a  real  elephant- 
headed  man  about  town  ,  likewise  an  elastic- 
skinned  man,  and  other  personages  equally 
gifted,  and  you  may  go  and  see  them  immor- 
talised in  wax  to  this  day  in  one  of  the  per- 
manent pcnn)'  waxworks  ;  but  in  the  flesh, 
Sideshow  London  knows  them  no  more. 





WITH  the  exception  of  one  particularly 
privileged  house  in  Covent  Garden 
— which  is  permitted  to  be  opened 
on  three  days  of  the  week  for  twenty-one  and 
a-half  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four — the 
licensed  hours  within  the  Metropolitan  area 
are  twenty  and  a-haif  a  day.  The  public- 
house  is  the  first  to  open  its  doors  in 
the  morning ;  it  is  the  last  to  close  them 
in  the  early  morning  following.  Mid-day 
and  midnight  are  both  embraced  in  the 
working  hours  of  the  London  licensed 
victualler.  There  are  suburbs  in  which  the 
closure  is  applied  at  1 1  p.m.,  and  bars 
in  the  West-End  where  the  presence  of 
a  customer  before  eleven  o'clock  in  the 
day  would  be  regarded  as  an  intrusion. 
London  has  been  styled  the  city  of  great 
contrasts,  and  the  truth  of  this  remark  is 
emphasised  to  the  visitor  who  regards  the 
Metropolis  from  the  "  licensed  to  be  drunk 
on  the  premises "  point  of  view.  Lu.xury 
and  squalor,  gilded  affluence  and  shame- 
faced dinginess,  the  marble  entrance-hall 
and  the  swing  doors,  stand  shoulder  to 
shoulder  through  the  heart  of  the  town. 

If  we  would  obtain  a  comprehensive  im- 
pression of  Bar  and  Saloon  London  we 
must  be  astir  with  the  dawn.  All  through 
the  night  the  market  carts  have  been  jogging 
into  town,  and  although  it  is  not  yet  three 

o'clock  Covent  Garden  Market  has  been  long 
awake.  Already  a  small  crowd  is  gathered 
around  the  portals  of  the  market  house. 
With  the  first  stroke  of  three  the  doors 
are  unbolted,  and  the  business  of  the  day 
commences.  For  the  next  four  or  five  hours 
the  smart-looking,  alert  barmen  will,  literally 
and  figuratively,  have  their  hands  full. 

The  buffets  at  the  terminal  railway  stations 
are  among  the  earliest  saloons  to  open,  and 
as  we  make  our  way  to  Piccadilly  through 
the  smaller  thoroughfares  signs  of  activity 
are  everywhere  observable  in  the  licensed 
world.  Tubs  of  bar,  which  repose 
on  the  kerbs  against  the  coming  of  the 
dustmen,  attract  the  scrutiny  of  the  early 
prowler,  potmen  are  polishing  the  huge 
swinging  lamps  and  plate-glass  windows, 
and  barrels  of  beer  are  being  lowered  into 
dark  yawning  cellars.  The  four  thousand 
licensed  houses  and  beer  shops  of  the 
Metropolis  are  being  put  in  order  for  the 
daily  round. 

Let  us  pause  for  a  moment  in  the  security 
of  the  island  pavement  in  Piccadilly  Circus. 
Here  such  well-known  bars  as  the  Piccadilly 
and  the  Leicester  Lounge  are  in  sight, 
while  behind  the  solid  blockade  of  buildings 
that  hedge  about  the  Circus  half  a  hundred 
licensed  houses  are  within  a  few  minutes' 
walk  of  our  halting  place.     We  proceed  along 



Cranbourn      Street,    glancing    at    the    Hay-  which    cover    the   walls.      Stageland    in   the 

market    as    we    go,     and    if    we    decide    to  more   exalted   form    of    leading   actors   and 

pass  through    Leicester   Square   and    thence  theatrical  capitalists  is  to  the  fore  again   at 

walk    on    to     Maiden    Lane — we    have     no  Romano's,    which    rears    its    striking    yellow 

time   to    look    into    the    handsome    bar    of  frontage   in   the   Strand.     Other  well-known 


the   Queen's    Hotel,    or    dive    into   the   beer  resorts   are   also   in    this    part   of  the  town, 

saloon    of    the    adjacent    Brasserie    on    our  including    the    Gaiety   and    Short's    famous 

way — we  shall  find  at  Rule's  an  interesting  wine-house.     The    Garrick    is    a    somewhat 

gathering  of  people.     There    is    a   distinctly  newer    theatrical    rendezvous,    and    facing  it, 

theatrical    flavour    about    the    company,    and  hard  by  St.  Martin's  Church,  is  yet  another, 

the    theatrical    traditions    of  the    house    are  the    Chandos,    with    its    imposing    bar    and 

recalled      by     the      pictures     and     playbills  lounge,  a  morning  house  of  call  for  ladies  who 



have  paid  their 
diurnal  visit  to  one 
or  other  of  the 
dramatic  and 
musical  agencies 
that  flourish  in  the 

In  the  wine 
houses  a  different 
class  of  customer 
is  usually  en- 
countered. At 
Short's,  whose  chief 
branch  is  just  east 
of  the  Gaiety 
Restaurant  in  the 
Strand,  port  is  the 
favourite  beverage. 
A  few  wine  shops 
are  conducted  by  a 
privileged  class 
called  "free 
vintners  " — men  who  have  completed  service 
under  indentures  with  a  free  vintner — who 
require  no  licence,  and  who  have  the  con- 
solation of  knowing  that,  on  dying,  their 
businesses  can  be  carried  on  by  their  widows 
with  the  same  immunity  from  restrictions. 

The  Cheshire  Cheese,  rich  in  tradition  of 

A  CITY  WIXE-B.\K  '      - 





Dr.  Johnson  and  his  contemporaries,  still 
retains  its  ancient  form.  We  approach  the 
sanded  bar  through  a  narrow  court,  and 
warm  ourselves  before  the  old  shell-shaped 
iron  grate  in  a  company  that  is  repre.senta- 
tive  of  journalism  rather  than  literature,  the 
journalism  of  sport  predominating.  The 
Rainbow  Tavern,  which  for  scores  of 
years  did  one  of  the  most  serious, 
select,  and  conservative  businesses  in 
London,  is  now  a  Bodega.  The 
Bodegas  adapt  themselves  to  circum- 
stances. They  cater  for  men  and 
women  or  for  men  only,  according 
to  locality  and  environment.  Let  us 
drop  into  the  commodious  branch  in 
Bucklersbury,  sometimes  known  as  the 
"  Free  Exchange."  The  heavy  swing 
doorway  is  flanked  on  either  side  by 
a  sandwich  counter  and  a  cigar  stall. 
The  circular  bar  occupies  the  centre 
of  the  shop,  and  on  an  adjacent  stand 
reposes  a  whole  Cheddar  cheese  of 
noble  proportions ;  while  baskets  of 
plain  but  wholesome  lunch  biscuits 
are  within  reach.  Besides  the  above, 
mention  may  be  made  of  Henekey's 
wine  house  in  High  Holborn,  which 
was  established  as  far  back  as  1695. 

The  Stock  Exchange  has  for  years 
resorted   to  Mabey's,   in  Throgmorton 



Street,  for  both  meat  and  drink.  It  is  a  hat- 
less  and  hustling  crowd  that  one  encounters 
in  this  famous  establishment,  a  note-book 
and  pencil-carrying  crowd,  that  converses 
in  figures  and  argues  in  vulgar  fractions. 
Mabey's  from  the  outside  has  the  appearance 
of  a  City  sale  room  ;  some  of  the  other  bars 
of  the  neighbourhood  are  small  and  dimly 
lighted  offices,  fitted  up  with  a  counter  and 
stocked  with  good  liquor.  There  are  half  a 
dozen  such  within  hail  of  Shorter's  Court. 

Going  further  east  into  Bishopsgate  Street 
Without  we  come  to  "  Dirty  Dick's,"  so 
named  after  its  original  proprietor,  who 
found  a  grubby  consolation  for  blighted 
matrimonial  projects  —  his  intended  bride 
died  on  the  morning  appointed  for  the 
wedding — in  a  protracted  abstinence  from 
soap  and  water. 
Dirty  Dick  is 
also  known  to 
history  on 
account  of  the 
rule,  that  was 
rigorously  en- 
forced at  this 
house  during 
his  lifetime, 
which  denied  a 
customer  more 
than  one  drink 
at  each  visit. 
At  an  adjacent 
hostelry  in 
Artillery  Lane 
this  "  one  call, 
one  cup" 
system  still  ob- 
tains, and  a 
printed  copy 
of  the  rules  of 
the  house  is 
presented  to 
each  new 
customer.  For- 
merly another 
curious  East- 
End  public-house — which  was  merely  a 
wooden  building  —  stood,  detached  and 
apart,  like  an  island,  in  the  middle  of 
Mile  End  Road.  Near  by,  in  White- 
chapel  Road,  there  is  to  be  seen  an 
open    bar  —  the    only    one    of    its    kind    in 

AT   A 

London — where,  as  shown  in  our  photo- 
graphic illustration  on  page  286,  customers 
stand  on  the  pavement  about  the  pewter- 
topped  window-ledge,  and  imbibe  their 
refreshments  in  sight  of  the  passers  by. 

Discussion  halls,  which  constituted  a 
popular  feature  of  public-house  life  some 
fifty  years  ago,  are  now  almost  extinct, 
and  the  time-honoured  practice  of  formally 
celebrating  a  change  of  ov/nership  of  licensed 
property  is  fast  falling  into  disuse.  The 
Cogers'  Hall,  near  Fleet  Street,  still  holds 
discussions ;  but  the  custom  of  inviting 
some  of  the  nobility  and  gentry  of  the 
neighbourhood  to  spend  a  long  damp  day 
at  the  joint  expense  of  an  outgoing 
and  an  incoming  tenant  is  now  seldom 
observed.     A  modified  form  of  "  a  change " 

is  still  occa- 
sionally to  be 
witnessed,  but 
the  proceedings 
are  marked  by 
their  brevity 
and  orderli- 
ness. T  h  e 
gaugers  em- 
ployed by  the 
two  contract- 
ing parties- 
having  com- 
pleted Iheir 
duties  of 
checking  the 
stock,  the  legal 
deeds  are 
signed,  the 
money  is  paid 
over,  and  an 
adjournment  is 
then  made  to 
the  bar.  A 
fund  is  started 
by  the  new 
and  the  old 
landlords,  the 
other interested 
parties  also  contribute,  and  the  proceeds  are 
devoted  to  the  disbursement  of  champagne 
and  other  liquors  among  the  assembled 
well-wishers  of  the  new  management. 

Sunday  closing  in  London,  though  rigor- 
ously  paraded,    is    rarely   strictly   observed. 

IN    THE    EAST-E.ND. 



Many    houses   in   the   City   proper   and   the  people    assemble   on    the    Sabbath    to    sell 

West-End  are  held  on  the  six  days'  licence,  and     purchase     ready-made     and     re-made 

which   precludes    a    Sunday   trade,   but    by  clothes.     The  doors  of  the  local  hostelry  are 

far    the    greater   number    of    publicans    are  open    for  bond  fide  travellers,   but   they  are 

entitled  to 
open  on  Sun- 
days between 
the  hours  of 
one  and  three 
in  the  after- 
noon and  from 
six  to  eleven 
in  the  evening. 
The  licensing 
law  permits  a 
traveller,  who 
has  journeyed 
a  distance  of 
three  miles,  to 
obtain  refresh- 
ment during 
closed  hours, 
provided     that 

he  has  not  travelled  for  the  express 
purpose  of  obtaining  the  drink  to 
which  he  is  legally  entitled.  But  this 
provision   is  seldom  enforced. 

For  example,  on  Sundays  during 
the  summer  months  the  Bull  and  Bush 
at  Hampstead  is  a  very  popular  resort 
with  pedestrians,  cyclists,  horsemen, 
motorists,  and  travellers  in  every 
description  of  conveyance.  All  the 
morning  there  is  a  continuous  stream 
of  visitors,  and  the  broad  roadway  is 
filled  with  a  great  variety  of  vehicles,  from 
the  neat  dogcart  to  the  stately  four-in-hand. 
Stylish  gowns  mingle  with  cycling  suits  and 
immaculate  frock  coats,  the  outer  walls 
present  a  network  of  spokes  and  handle-bars, 
and  the  snorting  motor  is  oftentimes  the 
centre  of  an  interested  group  apart. 

zealously  guarded.  The  proprietor,  with 
note-book  in  hand,  interrogates  every 
aspiring  customer.  If  he  is  without  a 
railway  ticket,  his  name  and  address 
are  duly  entered  upon  the  landlord's 
tablet ;  if  he  produces  his  "  return  half," 
it  is  subjected  to  scrutiny.  Should 
the  date  be  obliterated — by  accident  or 
otherwise — the  policeman  on  point  duty 
is  consulted.  The  precaution  is  adopted 
at  all  the  houses  in  the  neighbourhood. 
It  was  an  observant  Frenchman  who, 
arguing  from 
insufficient  in- 
formation, was 
deluded  by 
the  obvious 
into  the  re- 
flection that 
the  omnibus 
system  of 
London  was 
arranged  for 
when  it  was 
not  taking 
travellers  from 
a  public-house 
to  a  railway 
station,  or 
from  a  railway 
station  to  a  public-house,  of  conveying  pas- 
sengers from  one  public-house  to  another.  It 
is,  of  course,  a  fact  that  the  termini  of  the 
majority  of  'bus  routes  are  made  at  public- 
houses,  and  that  the  average  Londoner,  in 
pointing  out  the  way  to  a  stranger,  will 
punctuate   his  directions   with  references   to 

LANDLORD.        IL      WAITING      TO 


In  the  poorer  parts  of  the  Metropolis  the     well-known  taverns.     Tell  the  most  puzzled 

authorities  assume  a  more  precautionary 
attitude  towards  travellers  who  demand  to 
be  served  with  liquid  refreshment  out  of 
licensed  hours  on  Sunday  morning.  The 
same  law  applies  to  both  Hampstead  and 
Whitechapel,  but  in  the  latter  neighbour- 
hood it  is  dispensed  with  rigid  formality. 
In  the  Clothing  Exchange,  locally  known 
as    "  Rag    Fair,"    which   lies   off  Middlesex 

cabman  the  name  of  the  nearest  hostelry, 
and  you  give  him  his  bearings  in  a  word. 
Wonderful  structures  are  these  establish- 
ments that  give  individuality  to  neighbour- 
hoods. Islington  has  its  "Angel,"  Crickle- 
wood  its  "  Crown,"  Kilburn  its  "  Lord 
Palmerston,"  Newington  its  "Elephant  and 
Castle,"  Camden  Town  its  "  Mother  Red 
Cap,"   Hendon  its  "Welsh  Harp,"  Finsbury 

Street   {nh    Petticoat    Lane),    thousands    of     Park  its  "  Manor  House,"  Finchley  its  "  Bald- 



Faced  Stag,"  Kentish  Town  its  "  Mother 
Shipton,"  and  Pimlico  its  "  Monster,"  while 
"  Swiss  Cottage "  is  named  after  its  dis- 
tinguishing hostelry.  No  Londoner  could 
associate  any  of  these  houses  with  any  other 
neighbourhood.  Structurally  they  may  be 
widely  different,  but  in  their  general  plan 
and  their  working  arrangements  they  are 
so  much  alike  that  a  description  of  one 
will  stand  as  a  description  of  all. 

Let  us  glance  into  this  palatial  building 
that  runs  like  a  headland  into  the  sea  of 
traffic  and  divides  the  current  of  it  into 
two  streams.  Omnibuses  are  drawn  up 
against  the  kerb  on  both  sides  of  the  house, 
and  a  dozen  huge  lamps  throw  a  flood  of 
light  far  across  the  roadways.  The  interior 
is  divided  into  some  half-dozen  compart- 
ments, which  are  duly  labelled,  and  the 
printed  announcement,  "  Parlour  prices 
charged  in  this  department,"  or  "  Glasses 
only,"  signifies  that  a  practical  purpose  is 
served  by  these  partitions.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  noise,  but  no  technical  disorder,  in 
the  "  four-ale "  bar,  where  a  small  crowd  of 
omnibus  drivers  and  conductors  are  making 
full  use  of  their  short  respite.  In  the 
corresponding  bar  opposite  the  "  horny- 
handed  sons  of  toil "  are  interspersed  with 
lady  customers  ;  and  in  the  bottle  and  jug 
department  more  women  are  to  be  descried. 

who  while  their  vessels  are  being  filled  are 
fortifying  themselves  against  the  return 
journey.  Of  children  there  are  none  to 
be  seen.  This  is  a  flourishing  house,  and, 
rather  than  be  bothered  with  the  labour 
of  "  corking  and  sealing "  the  vessels  and 
interrogating  the  deceptively  ancient-looking 
youngsters  as  to  their  age,  Mr.  Publican 
will  not  serve  any  children  under  the  age 
of  fourteen  years.  The  distinction  between 
the  "  private  "  bar  and  the  "  saloon  "  bar  is 
subtle.  The  same  prices  are  charged  in 
both.  The  customer  whose  desire  is  to 
escape  the  "  mutable  many "  will  patronise 
the  former ;  the  latter  is  affected  by  the 
"lads  of  the  village"  and  their  ladies. 
The  saloon  bar  is  the  ante-chamber  of  the 
billiard-room,  its  habitues  are  mostly  known 
to  the  landlord,  and  often  address  the  bar- 
maids by  their  Christian  names. 

As  the  hour  of  twelve-thirty  approaches, 
preparations  for  closing  are  ostentatiously 
paraded  ;  the  potmen  look  to  the  fastenings 
of  doors,  lights  are  lowered,  and  cries  of 
"  Time,  gentlemen,  please  ! "  grow  more 
peremptory  as  the  minute  hand  creeps  to- 
wards its  nadir.  With  the  clock  strike  the 
customers  are  outside,  the  doors  are  bolted, 
and  the  policeman  on  duty  disperses  the 
reluctant  groups  and  clears  his  beat  of 
dawdlers  against  the  visit  of  the  inspector. 






BABIES  may  be  all  alike — to  quote  a  piece 
of  masculine  heterodoxy — but  anyone 
who  looks  into  the  subject  will  speedily 
discover  that  christenings  differ.  The  tiny 
pilgrims  just  starting  on  life's  strange 
and  perilous  journey  have  their  feet  set  for 
them  in  this  path  or  that.  The  Church, 
broadly  speaking,  receives  them  :  but  there 
are  more  creeds  and  churches  than  one,  and, 
in  consequence,  varying  modes  of  reception. 
London,  city  of  the  world,  furnishes  us  with 
many  examples  in  kind  and  in  degree. 

Let  us  begin  at  the  top  of  the  social  scale, 
and  find  ourselves  for  the  nonce  among  the 
highest  in  the  land.  Here  comes  a  white- 
robed  nurse,  tall  and  elegant,  with  trailing 
skirts  ;  she  carries  in  her  arms  a  royal  infant, 
and  a  powdered  footman  precedes  her.  Arrived 
at  the  drawing-room,  where  an  august  party 
is  already  assembled,  a  lady-in-waiting  takes 
the  precious  baby  from  her,  and  the  christen- 
ing service  begins.  She  then  presents  him  to 
the  Queen,  the  chief  sponsor,  and  her  Majesty, 

at  the  prescribed  moment,  hands  him  to  the 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  The  princeling 
is  baptised  with  consecrated  water  brought 
from  the  Jordan,  while  the  "  font "  is  re- 
presented by  a  golden  bowl  of  exquisite 
design,  which,  by  the  way,  is  used  for  all 
infant  "  royalties  "  born  within  the  limits  of 
the  United  Kingdom.  Around  it  the  sponsors 
are  grouped,  according  to  their  rank.  An 
ordinary  baby  contents  himself  with  three, 
but  the  heir  to  a  throne  may  have  as  many 
as  a  dozen,  all  told. 

Needless  to  say,  the  hero  of  the  day  is 
always  clothed  in  the  daintiest  and  most 
costly  of  garments  :  nothing  is  too  beautiful 
for  him.  He  wears  pure  white,  naturally, 
as  we  think  ;  but  less  than  half  a  century  back 
another  royal  baby  went  through  a  similar 
ceremony  in  all  the  bravery  of  a  silver  cloth 
dress  tied  with  pink  bows,  and  an  enormously 
long  train.  Any  sum,  say  the  authori- 
ties on  such  matters,  may  be  paid  for  a 
christening    robe    trimmed    with    real    lace. 



Fifteen  guineas  is  an  ordinan-  price  :  one  from 
the  Paris  Exhibition  was  sold  by  a  Kniglits- 
bridge  tradesman  for  fift\- !  Some  families 
possess  historic  christening  suits,   which   are 

A   NURSE  :    NEW    STYLE. 

preserved  with  the  greatest  care.  A  London- 
Scottish  young  lady  was  baptised  in  her 
grandmother's  wedding  veil  and  the  robe 
worn  successively  by  her  father  and  two 

The  Chapel  Royal,  St.  James's,  sees  many 
a  christening  in  "  high  life "  ;  so  does  All 
Saints'  Church,  Knightsbridge.  A  favourite 
time  is  shortly  after  luncheon.  The  guests 
then  return  to  the  house  for  tea,  at  which 
[jopular  and  informal  gathering  a  splendid 
cake  is  sure  to  figure,  with  Baby's  name  and 
the  date  of  his  birth  writ  large  upon  it. 
Sometimes  a  Mamma  of  sentiment  will  save 
a  slice  for  her  darling  to  taste  in  after-years. 

The  ceremony  at  the  church  is  neither 
long  nor  elaborate.  The  family  and  friends 
group  themselves  near  the  font.  The  god- 
mother, when  the  time  arrives,  gives  the 
baby  to  the  officiating  clergyman — a  terrible 
moment  for  the  }Oung,  unpractised  curate — 
and  the  chief  godfather  replies  to  the  question 
"  Name  this  child."  The  clergyman  either 
sprinkles  the  baby  or  pours  a  few  drops  of 
water  on  its  face  from  a  carved,  silver- 
mounted  shell. 

The  carriages  convey  the  christening  party 
back  to  the  house,  or,  if  the  guests  .separate, 
they  probably  meet  again  at  a  grand  dinner 
given  in  honour  of  the  son  and  heir.  Baby 
in  full  array  and  Baby's  presents  are  on  view, 

while  Nurse,  all  smiles,  does  not  disdain  any 
occasional  offerings  slipped  discreetly  into  her 
palm.  Very  different  is  she  from  the  "  Sarah 
Gamp "  portrayed  by  Dickens.  As  to  the 
christening  gifts,  a  simple  silver  mug  is  no 
longer  the  only  article  that  suggests  itself 
to  the  mind.  Wealthy  godfathers  and  "  fairy 
godmothers "  bestow  a  handsome  sum  of 
money,  from  £iOO  to  ;{^  i ,000,  or  arrange  that 
the  child  shall  have  a  certain  amount  of 
"  pocket  money,"  paid  regularly  on  each 
birthday  until  his  twenty-first.  Here  is 
a  list  of  presents  given  to  some  lucky 
babies  of  both  sexes  :  A  clock,  Irish  loving- 
cup,  gold  bowl  (from  the  King),  perambulator, 
carriage  rug,  gold  bangle,  Louis  XV.  spoons, 
silver  porringer  of  antique  pattern,  clasped 
Bible,  prayer  book  and  hymn  book,  any 
number  of  lovely  embroidered  robes,  and 
real  lace  handkerchiefs  and  veils.  A  popular 
present  is  a  tiny  gold  charm  representing  the 
sign  of  the  Zodiac  under  which  the  child 
was  born  ;  this  the  little  angel  wears,  hung 
round  his  neck  for  luck,  by  a  fine  gold 

No  flourish  of  trumpets  heralds  the  recep- 

A   NUKSE  :    OLD   STYLE. 

tion  of  a  "  slum  "  baby  into  the  bosom  of  the 
Church.  No  cake,  no  presents,  no  lace 
furbelows  are  for  him  1  He  arrives  rolled  up 
in  an  old  shawl,  and  wearing  a  hood  borrowed 
from  a  neighbour.  In  some  parishes — at 
Poplar  and  Westminster,  for  example — there 
are  evening  christenings  once  a  week,  to  fit  in 
with  the  hard-working  parents'  daily  engage- 
ments.    Wander  in  some  Wednesday  night 



about  half-past  eight,  and 
you  may  chance  upon  a 
curate,  two  women,  and  a 
baby  standing  round  the  font, 
in  a  silent,  dimly  -  lighted 
church.  Sponsors?  Well, 
"Albert  Edward"  has  a  god- 
mother, at  any  rate,  although 
his  godfathers  are  con- 
spicuously absent ;  and,  being 
a  wise  child,  he  sleeps  placidly 
through  the  entire  ceremony. 

Sunday  afternoon  is  a 
grand  time  for  christenings 
in  populous  neighbourhoods. 
The  officiating  clergyman 
may  find  as  many  as  half  a 
dozen  babies  awaiting  him, 
decked  out  as  finely  as  their 
proud  mothers  can  manage. 
One,  disliking  the  whole  pro- 
ceeding, starts  crying ;  the  rest 
follow  suit:  and  the  parson's  voice  is  drowned 
by  a  chorus  of  wails.  Poor  little  souls,  they 
already  find  life  too  hard  for  them  ! 

Not  unfrequently  the  clergy  are  called  upon 
to  bestow  rather  singular  names  in  holy 
baptism.  The  parents  have  a  leaning 
towards  something  flowery,  as,  for  instance, 
"  Dahlia  Lorella  "  ;  or  they  desire  to  "  date  " 
their  offspring,  and  so  label    them  "  Corona- 


tion,"  "  Mafeking,"  "  Magersfontein,"  or  some- 
thing equally  terrible.  Royal  appellations  are 
popular  ;  hence  we  get  the  certainly  startling 
''  Queen  Victoria "  Jones,  also  "  Princess 
Alice  Maud  Mary,"  shortened  for  common 
use  into  "  Princess  Mogg,"  and  the  less 
ambitious  "  Princess."  The  last  mentioned 
was  selected  by  a  harassed  father,  because 
the   relatives   fought   pitched    battles    about 




the  baby's  name,  and  he  decided  that 
"  Princess "  could  give  offence  to  no  one. 
In  the  register  of  St.  Martin's-in-the-Fields 
we  find  "  Alice  Centurion."  One  small  scrap 
of  humanity  had  to  be  "  Bill,"  for  the  reason 
that  William  and  Willy  were  already  there  ; 
while  a  certain  wee  Jack  owned  an  elder 
brother  John  and  a  father  also  Joim. 

The  tall  Scottish  minister  entering  )onder 
house  is  about  to  christen  a  "  bonny 
bairn,"  and  the  family  and  sundry  friends 
are  already  seated  round  the  drawing-room. 
They  rise  as  he  enters,  in  his  ordinary  attire, 
and  the  brief  and  simple  ceremony  commences. 
A  white  cloth  is  spread  upon  a  small  table, 
and  the  family  punch-bowl,  an  old  relic,  serves 
for  a  more  sacred  purpose  than  the  one  for 
which  it  was  originally  designed.  A  trying 
moment  soon  arrives  for  the  father :  he  has 
to  stand,  the  rest  being  seated,  while  the 
minister  solemnly  and  pointedly  addresses  him 
on  behalf  of  the  child,  indicating  his  duties 
and  responsibilities  towards  it.  Then  the 
mother  places  the  baby  in  her  husband's  arms, 
and  it  is  he  who  presents  it  to  the  minister. 
Dark  eyes,  olive  complexions,  the  murmur 
of  a  Southern  tongue — signs  are  these  that 
we  have  reached  the  Italian  quarter  of  our 
all-embracing  Metropolis.  Entering  the 
Italian  church,  Hatton  Garden,  one  presently 
discovers,  by  the  dim  light  of  a  dull  afternoon, 
a  couple  of  tiny  bambini,  probably  from 
Saffron  Hill,  with  their  attendant  guardians. 
Italians,  be  it  remarked,  choose  their 
children's  godparents  most  carefully,  for  the 
latter  will  henceforth  rank  almost  as  mem- 
bers of  the  family. 

An  old  nurse,  with  strongly  marked  features, 
dressed  in  her  native  costume,  carries  Annun- 
ziata,  aged  five  days,  who  is  wrapped  in  a 
voluminous  white  shawl,  tied  round  the 
middle,  rather  like  a  Christmas  cracker,  with 
a  broad,  red  ribbon.  Baby  number  two, 
small  Agostino,  wears  a  mantle,  a  much  be- 
ribboned  hood,  and  a  cap  with  a  blue  bow. 
As  he  is  to  be  christened  first,  these  adorn- 
ments are  removed  with  speed. 

The  baptismal  service  used  in  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  is  a  highly  .symbolic  one  : 
we  can  but  glance  briefly  at  its  most  salient 
details.  The  priest  asks,  meeting  the 
baptismal  group,  "  Agostino,  what  dost  thou 
demand  of  the  Church  ? "  and  the  sponsors 

reply,  "  Eternal  life."  The  evil  spirit  is 
exorcised  that  it  may  come  out  of  the  child, 
the  sign  of  the  cross  made  upon  the  little 
one's  forehead  and  breast,  prayers  are  offered, 
and  the  "  salt  of  wisdom "  is  put  into  its 
mouth.  Arrived  at  the  font,  the  priest  touches 
the  child's  ears  and  nose ;  a  burning  taper  is 
also  placed  for  a  second  in  the  tiny  hand,  in 
token  that  it  must  keep  its  light  shining  be- 
fore the  world.  The  sponsors  holding  it  over 
the  font,  due  east  and  west,  the  priest  anoints 
it  with  oil  between  the  shoulders  in  the  form 
of  a  cross.  He  next  pours  the  holy  water 
three  times  upon  the  little  head  ;  and,  with 
a  brief  exhortation,  the  service  is  ended. 

Wesleyans  have  no  sponsors  for  their 
children,  neither  have  the  Congregationalists  ; 
with  the  latter  baptism,  although  generally 
practised,  is  optional.  Quakers  do  not  christen 
at  all,  and  the  Salvation  Army  "  dedicates." 

A  "  dedication  "  is  naturally  of  a  military 
character.  We  are  passing  the  barracks  ;  let 
us  enter  the  hall  where  an  evening  prayer- 
meeting  has  begun.  Yonder  stands  the  Captain 
of  the  corps,  and  the  Adjutant  and  his  wife, 
parents  of  the  child  about  to  be  "  dedicated." 
Behind  them  are  rows  of  earnest  faces,  many 
framed  in  the  dark  blue  bonnet  we  know  so 
well.  The  little  girl  smiles  in  her  mother's 
arms,  recking  not  of  future  warfare,  while  her 
parents  promise  to  train  her  up  as  a  "  faithful 
soldier "  and  to  keep  her  from  "  intoxicat- 
ing drink,  finery,  wealth,  hurtful  reading, 
worldly  acquaintance."  The  Captain  takes 
the  child,  the  corps  stand,  and  solemnly 
"  Mary  Greenwood "  is  dedicated  to  the 
service  of  God  and  the  Salvation  Army.  He 
calls  out,  energetically:  "Those  who  will  pray 
for  these  parents  and  this  child,  and  in  every 
way  they  can  help  them  to  carry  out  the 
promises  made  this  day — Bayonets — fix  I " 

"  God  bless  these  parents  !  " 

"  Amen  ! " 

"  God  bless  this  child  !  " 

"  Amen  !  " 

"  God  bless  the  Army  !  " 

"  Amen  ! " 

The  "  volleys "  rattle  through  the  hall ; 
the  new  recruit  cries. 

Does  not  this  touch  of  nature  make  all  our 
babies  kin  ?  And  so,  having  brought  them 
to  this  first  stage  on  their  earthly  pilgrimage, 
let  us  take  our  leave  of  them. 







THE  London  County  Council  has  nothing 
like  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show  with 
which  to  impress  the  Londoner  in  the 
street,  and  the  annual  dinner  of  its  Chairman 
cannot  yet  pretend  to  the  prestige  of  the 
Guildhall  banquet.  Yet  during  its  exist- 
ence it  has  acquired  for  London's  millions 
a  human  interest  and  a  living  significance 
such  as  no  other  public  body  has  ever  pos- 
sessed. In  the  civic  activity  it  calls  forth 
the  Council's  election  every  three  years  is 
comparable  only  with  London's  share  in  Par- 
liamentary general  elections. 

On  the  other  hand,  it  would  be  hard  to  find 
a  provincial  town  which  knows  so  little  of  its 
municipal  rulers  and  the  actual  method  ot 
their  daily  work  as  does  London  of  its  County 
Council.  At  election  time  the  Council  and 
its  work  are  the  subject  of  hundreds  of  meet- 
ings, of  thousands  of  newspaper  columns,  and 
millions  of  leaflets  and  pamphlets.  At  all 
times  Londoners  are  constantly  confronted 
with  the  letters  "  L.C.C." — at  street  improve- 
ment works,  in  the  parks  and  on  the  bridges, 
on  fire-engines  and  tramcars,  and  so  on.  But 
you  might  ask  a  dozen  men  in  the  street  to 
direct  you  to  the  Council's  meeting  place 
without  obtaining  the  desired  information. 
London  has  not  yet  its  Hotel  de  Ville, 
like  Paris  or  Brussels,  to  be  regarded  not  onl}- 
as  one  of  the  sights  of  the  capital  for  its 
strangers,  but  also  as  the  head-centre  of  muni- 
cipal activity  for  its  citizens.  Perhaps  this  is 
largely  the  rea.son  why  Londoners,  now  well 
acquainted  with  the  civic  energy  which  is 
transforming  the  face  of  their  great  city,  are 
at  present  apt  to  know  so  little  of  its 

Of  the  hundreds  who  are  crossing  Trafalgar 
Square  at  this  moment,  I  wonder  what  small 
fraction  are  aware  that  within  a  stone's  throw 
— up  a  side  street — are  the  headquarters  of 
the  largest  municipality  in  the  world,  with  a 
revenue  exceeding  that  posse.ssed  by  several 
of  the    European   states.     It   would    require 

some  enterprise  for  any  one  of  them  to 
discover  the  "  Entrance  to  Public  Gallery " 
between  the  shops  in  Cockspur  Street, 
although  to  a  few  earnest  students  of 
municipal  affairs  this  is  a  place  of  weekly 
pilgrimage.  As  it  is  nearly  half-past  two  on 
Tuesday  afternoon,  the  County  Hall's  front 
door  round  the  corner  in  Spring  Gardens  might 
be  identified,  after  a  few  moments'  observation, 
by  the  intermittent  stream  of  members 
making  their  way  to  it  for  the  usual  weekly 
meeting  at  that  hour. 

It  is  a  formidable  programme  of  business 
which  each  member  finds  ready  for  him  on 
his  seat  in  the  unpretentious  but  comfortable 
council  chamber.  There  are  over  a  hundred 
large  pages  in  the  "  agenda,"  to  be  disposed 
of  in  the  four  hours  and  a  half  which 
usually  represent  the  limit  of  the  sitting! 
Nothing  surprises  the  stranger  in  the  gallery 
so  much  as  the  speed  with  which,  at  times, 
page  after  page  of  this  agenda  is  turned 
over  by  the  Chairman,  amidst  the  silent 
acquiescence  of  the  members.  The  stranger 
afterwards  learns  that  practically  the  whole 
business  of  the  Council  is  put  before  it  in  the 
shape  of  reports  from  its  committees,  which 
the  members  of  the  Council  generally  have 
already  carefully  read  in  the  privacy  of  their 
homes,  the  agenda  invariably  reaching  them 
by  Saturday  night's  post  in  readiness  for 
Sunday's  leisure.  Furthermore,  the  com- 
mittees work  so  well  that,  as  a  rule,  it  is  only 
on  important  matters  of  policy  that  their 
decisions  are  ever  challenged  in  the  open 

Nor  is  debate  on  these  matters  ever  unduly 
prolonged.  A  fifteen  minutes  rule  prevails  at 
Spring  Gardens,  and  the  member  who  would 
speak  longer  than  this  time  must  receive  the 
consent  of  the  Council,  whilst  with  the 
approval  of  the  Chairman  the  debate  can  be 
"closured"  at  any  time.  Notwithstanding 
these  time-saving  expedients,  the  Chairman 
finds  it  necessary  to  travel  through  the  agenda- 


















MONDAY,  May  16th. 

WEDNESDAY,  17th. 

A«ylum  Sub-Committ«e  (BftnstMd),  at  A$glHm  ...  10J& 

d*o     Lo<tge     Kestdcnti&l     School     MwiuiDg 

<:^'mmn^tt.  at  the  School              1O.30 

Education  dub-OonxBUttec  (Dar  Schools— SectioD 

r«  Examtnatioa*),  ol  Atfucolutt  f^KcM           ...    H.O 

Thames  ConserTUCj  Board        -11.30 

Education  Sub-CommittM  (l>Kf  Schools— Section 

rt  Vacation  SchooU),  of  Arf<H»>(t»n  OJflt*§       ..  13,30 

Buildinc  ActComuuftee         3.0 

EducaUun  Sub-Corn.  (Buildirgs  and  AttendAaoe; 

.Accounts,  at  1.30).  at  £dwat,»n  Oltutt          ...      2.0 
EJui-atiun     t>ub-Coinmittee     [Speci*!      Schools). 

Anertvy   Residential    School   Managing   Com- 

TtaiX**,  at  tkt  School J,0 

Oenerai  X^^rpo«es  Sub-Oommitt«e  (General)         ...    JJO 
Jvint  Committee  on  Underfed  Childrtsn,  ut  OomhIv 

Hall       2-30 

Oeneral  Purposes  Committee            3.0 

Education    i)ub-Oommitte«   (OenenI  Purpoees— 

Accounts  at  3.30^,  dr  Cuunfy  tfd//           4.O 

ruMic  Health  Sub*Committee  fCattlc  Inspector),..      4.0 
Rivers  Committee         4.15 

TUESDAY,   16tn. 

Education ,  Sub-Committee     {Teaching     Staff- 
Section  rt Selecuon  o( Teaohen and  Inbtructora) 

at  Sducatton  Ofices 10,0 

Firo  Brigade   Committee  (View).   {Train  lemvtt 

Charing-crot4  Railwajt  Station  (>.  E.  &  c.  R.)  at  10.32 
Educatioo  Sub-Committee  ^Special  Schools— In- 
dustrial Schools  Coses  Section),  at  Hdacation 

OffLMM ,        11.0 

Housing  of  the  Working  Classes  Committee        ...     11.0 
Fiuanue  Sub-<.:omimtt«e  (Education  Accounts], at 

hducatton  Officet      13.0 

Education  Comtuittee,  at  County  Halt      3-0 

Improcements  Committee       8.0 

Finance  Sub-Committee  (ileneralAooounls)        ...    2.15 

Undges  Committee       2.30 

Theatres  8ab-Committ«e        330 

Fmanoe  Committee        3.0 

Theatres  and  Music  Halls  Committee        3.30 

THURSDAY,  18th. 

AiiTlura  Sub-Committee  (Cone  Hill),  at  As\/lum...  lOJiO 
Ed'ucition  Sub-Com.  [Special  Schools).   "  Sha/tea- 
but7  "  IVaining  Ship  Managing  Committee,  at 

the  Ship .   ^      11.15 

Parks  Committee  ( Vihit  to  places  in  S.E.  district). 

Mtft  at  ChariuQ-crott  Are  brigade  Pier  at  ...    1^0 

at  Education  0]ficet 3.0 

Establishment  CommitteP       3-0 

Mum  DrainoKe  Sub-Committee  (Accounts)          ...    3,15 

Uigtiways  Committee 3.30 

Main  Drainage  Committee 2.;iO 

Fire  Brigade  Committee          8.30 

Public  Health  Committee        3.30 

Parliamentary  Conunittee      ...      4.0 

Education  Sub-Com.  (Polytechnics  and  Evening 
SchooU)   (Accounts  and  Requisitions,  4.15),  at 
Aducation  Offieet       4.30 

E4-  Sub-Com.  (Day  Schools^,  at  Edwation  Offictt  10.30 
Eiiucatiun  Sub-Com.    (Special  Schoolt).     Drury- 

lane   Day   Industrial    School  Managing  Com- 

ntittM,  at  the  School            10-80 

A'Tlums  Sub-Committee  (General  Purposes)       ...    ll.Q 
lii«bways  Sub-Committee  (Acoounta,  Stores  and 

(ienewl)            12.0 

Housing  Sub-Committee  (Estates) 13.30 

Ix>onl  Government  Sub-Cora.  (Street  Naming)     ...      3.0 
Parliameriury    Sub  -  Committee    ( rbomes    Con- 

serTancy  UillJ  i/Fif«j»nrj/            2,0 

Public  Control  Sub-Committee  (Ix>comotiTes  on 

Highways!      2.0 

COUNtCit     9.30 

FOUR    D.WS    WORK  :    PAGES    FROM    A    MEMBER  S    DIARY. 

paper  at  a  high  rate  of  speed,  and  as  he 
proceeds  it  may  be  observed  that  first  one 
member,  then  another,  shows  an  anxious 
alertness,  ready  to  strike  in  at  the  proper 
moment  with  his  question    or  his  challenge. 

"  Report    of    the    Committee,"    calls 

out  the  Chairman  of  the  Council.  "  I 
move  the  reception  of  the  report,"  responds 
a  voice  from  the  front  row  of  the  semi- 
circular benches  on  which  seats  are  allotted 
to  the  chairmen  of  the  committees.  "  That 
the  report  be  received,"  says  the  Chair- 
man of  the  Council.  If  it  is  the  report  of 
a  committee,  such  as  the  "  Highways  "  or  the 
"  Theatres,"  dealing  with  some  subject  of 
great  current  interest,  there  will  be  a  bunch 
of  questions  for  its  chairman  "on  the  reception 
of  the  report,"  and  possibly  a  general  debate. 

The  report  having  been  received,  its 
recommendations  are  enumerated.  To  any 
of  these  recommendations  an  amendment  may 
be  moved,  the  usual  form  of  which  is  to  refer 
it  back  to  the  committee  "  for  further  con- 
sidei'ation,"  with  sometimes  a  statement  of 
the  reason  for  this  course.  A  show  of  hands, 
as  a  rule,  decides  the  fate  of  such  amend- 
ments, the  decisions  mostly  confirming  that  of 
the  committee.  On  the  rare  occasions  \\-hen 
ten  members  rise  in  their  places  to  claim  a 
division,  the  division  is  taken  by  passing 
through  an  "  aye  "  and  "  no  "  lobby  as  in  the 
House  of  Commons. 

Although  the  benches 
are  always  fairly  well  filled, 
the  stranger  in  the  gallery 
will  notice  much  coming 
and  going  on  the  part  of 
members.  There  is  a  con- 
stituent or  a  friend  to  be 
seen  in  the  lobb)-,  a  book  to 
be  consulted  in  the  library, 
or  even  a  cigarette  to  be 
enjoyed  in  the  smoking- 
room.  After  four  o'clock 
the  desire  for  tea  begins 
to  manifest  itself  The 
Council's  tea-room  is  an 
important  feature  in  what 
may  be  termed  the  inner 
life  of  the  L.C.C.  Tea,  with 
the  kindred  beverages  that 
cheer  without  inebriating, 
bread  -  and  -  butter,  and  a 
dainty  assortment  of  cakes  form  the  only 
refreshments  obtainable  at  Spring  Gardens, 
and  they  are  provided,  together  with  the 
service  of  waitresses,  at  the  councillors'  own 
cost.  Now  and  again  the  Council's  sittings 
have  been  unduly  prolonged,  and  on  such 
occasions  these  edibles  have,  of  course, 
proved  wofully  inadequate.  The  minority, 
it  is  said,  once  nearly  starved  the  majority 
into  surrender  on  an  important  question  by 




keeping  the  Council  sitting  till  long  past 
midnight,  sustaining  themselves  in  the  mean- 
time on  a  pre-organised  supply  of  provender 
from  one  of  the  political  clubs. 

But  if  the  tea-room  is  deficient  in  its 
resources  in  such  an  emergency,  it  has  at 
normal  times  an  important  influence  on  the 
good-fellowship  of  the  members  of  the  Council, 
and  therefore  on  the  easy  working  of  the 
great  administrative  machine  which  is  in  their 

Apart  from  exceptional  occasions,  such  as 
the  Chairman's  garden  party  in  the  summer,  it 
affords  the  general  body 
of  ,  members  their  best 
opportunities  of  becoming 
personally  acquainted 
with  each  other.  Over  the 
teacups  sit  together  in 
amity  Moderate  and  Pro- 
gressive who  would  other- 
wise remain  strangers 
unless  they  happened  to 
belong  to  the  same  com- 
mittee. Over  the  teacups 
they  learn  to  respect  and 
even  esteem  each  other 
without  compromising 
their  differences  of  opinion. 
In  the  tea-room,  too, 
members  entertain  the 
visitors  they  have  intro- 
duced to  the  Chairman's 
dais,  and  it  is  often  graced 
by  the  presence  of  ladies, 
whose  animated  talk  is 
arrest  on  their  catchin^ 
inspiring  maps  or  plans  with  which  the  walls 
are  usually  adorned,  the  room  being  devoted 
to  the  labours  of  committees  on  other  days 
of  the  week. 

Yes,  if  you  could  see  this  room  on  the 
morrow  you  would  begin  to  realise  the  vast 
amount  of  the  Council's  varied  work,  of  which 
this  weekly  meeting  is  only  a  sort  of  synopsis, 
a  synopsis  which  is  again  reduced  to  the 
smallest  proportion  in  the  newspaper  reports, 
from  which  alone  Londoners  generally  learn 
of  their  Council's  doings.  Probably  ten  or  a 
dozen  members  of  a  committee  of  fifteen  are 
seated  round  a  long  table,  their  chairman 
at  the  head,  with  a  clerk  and  one  or  two  other 
officials  by  his  side.     They  are  steadih'  going 

through  a  paper  of  business  which  may  con- 
tain over  a  hundred  items,  listening  to  official 
reports,  examining  maps  and  plans,  perhaps 
interviewing  small  deputations  representing 
affected  interests  ;  then  quietly  discussing  in 
an  easy  conversational  style  matters  on  which 
difference  of  opinion  shows  itself.  The  com- 
mittee has  been  sitting  for  two  hours,  and 
may  sit  for  two  hours  more.  It  is  the  Council 
in  miniature,  with  the  diflerences  which 
privacy  creates.  On  some  matters,  for  ex- 
ample, speech  is  freer  from  the  absence  of 
reporters,  and  a  useful  part  is  taken  in  the 


prone   to    sudden 
sight    of  the  awe- 

deliberations  of  the  committee  by  members 
who  never  have  the  courage  to  rise  from  their 
seats  in  the  Council  chamber. 
•  If  we  leave  this  room  and  pass  along 
the  lobby,  we  shall  probably  find  four  or  fi\e 
rooms  in  succession  similarly  occupied. 
There  are  over  twenty  standing  committees, 
and  only  six  rooms  at  Spring  Gardens  avail- 
able for  their  meetings.  Some  meet  weekly, 
others  fortnightly,  and,  including  sub-commit- 
tees, it  is  a  common  thing  for  sixty  engage- 
ments to  figure  on  the  Council's  printed  diary 
for  the  week.  Although,  as  we  shall  see, 
some  of  these  are  not  at  tlie  County  Hall, 
it  is  obvious  that  each  of  the  six  committee- 
rooms  sees  a  great  deal  of  service,  whilst 
occasionally  even  the  library  and  the  smoking- 
room    have    to    be   invaded    for    purposes   of 



joint  deliberation.  The  largest  of  the  com- 
mittee-rooms, for  instance,  is  this  afternoon 
tenanted  by  the  Theatres  Committee,  which  is 
just  now  in  consultation  with  a  distinguished 
actor-manager  respecting  alterations  in  his 
theatre  required  by  public  safety.  To-morrow 
it  may  be  occupied  b\'  the  Parliamentary  or 
the  Public  Health  Committee,  the  one  busy 
with  the  preparation  of  the  Council's  legislation 
for  the  coming  session,  the  other  immersed  in 
important  details  concerning  the  regulation  of 

1 1,  Regent  Street ;  if  you  then  desire  to  inter- 
view some  member  of  the  Chemist's  staff,  you 
must  retrace  your  steps  to  Craven  Street, 
only  to  find  that  }'ou  have  passed  on  the 
way  in  Pall  Mall  the  office  of  a  gentleman 
whom  it  is  necessary  to  consult  on  some 
architectural  matter.  There  is  no  estimating 
the  loss  of  time  and  temper  which  during 
a  single  week  of  County  Council  London  is 
thus  occasioned  to  officials  and  business  men 
generally.       Let    us    hope     that    with    their 


cowsheds,  slaughter-houses,  common  lodging- 
houses,  and  the  .sanitary  supervision  of 
London  generally.  On  another  afternoon  it 
will  be  taken  possession  of  by  the  General 
Purposes  Committee — the  Cabinet  at  Spring 
Gardens,  consisting  mainly  of  the  chairmen  of 
all  the  other  committees,  and  advising  the 
Council  on  all  matters  of  policy — or  the 
scarcely  less  influential  Finance  Committee, 
which  regulates  its  purse-strings. 

In  the  County  Hall  it.self  there  is  room  for 
only  a  small  portion  of  the  professional  and 
clerical  staff  employed  by  the  Council.  This 
is  scattered  in  about  thirty  different  build- 
ings, .some  of  them  very  nearly  half  a  mile 
away.  If  you  have  business  with  the  Parks 
Department,    for    instance,    you    must    go   to 

expletives  they  mingle  prayers  for  the  time 
when  the  whole  central  staff  shall  be  con- 
centrated in  a  County  Hall  which  shall  be 
worthy  of  the  Imperial  capital. 

This  central  staff,  which  maintains  an  ex- 
cellent esprit  de  coi-ps  with  the  help  of  their 
own  monthly  journal  and  several  recreative 
clubs,  forms,  of  course,  but  a  small  proportion 
of  the  army  of  workers  employed  by  the 
L.C.C. — an  army  now  about  15,000  strong, 
or  35, 000  if  school  teachers  are  included — 
whose  operations  extend  all  over  the  1 18 
square  miles  of  County  Council  London,  and 
a  good  distance  beyond.  In  the  illustration 
on  this  page  are  to  be  seen  a  few  of  the  two 
or  three  thousand  men — masons,  bricklayers, 
navvies,    and   others  —  in    the    regular    em- 



ployment  of  the  Works  Department  of  the 

As  I  have  said,  members  of  the  Council 
themselves  have  to  travel  far  and  wide  in 
fulfilment  of  their  duties.  Let  us  accompany 
some  of  them  on  their  journeying.s. 

It  is  about  half-past  nine  on  Monday  morn- 
ing when  a  little  group  of  L.C.C.'s  meet  on 
the  platform  of  Waterloo  Station.  They 
are  members  of  the  Education  Committee, 
and  are  bound 
for  Feltham, 
where  is  situated 
one  of  the 
L.C.C.  schools 
for  reclaiming 
boys  from  an 
evil  1  i  f  e.  It 
is  an  hour's 
journey  in  train 
and  waggonette, 
followed  by  a 
tour  of  inspec- 
tion and  two  or 
three  hours' 
work  round  the 
table,  with  an 
interval  for 
luncheon  pro- 
vided from  the 
school  stores  at 
the  individual 
cost  of  each 
member.  Once 
a  month  this 
visit  is  made ; 
and  every 
summer,  at  the 
annual      sports, 

the  whole  Council  has  an  opportunity  of 
becoming  acquainted  with  the  school,  while 
the  best  cricketers  among  them  will  probabl}' 
engage  in  a  match  with  the  school  team. 
The  care  of  these  boys  takes  members  of 
the  committee  further  afield  than  Feltham 
and  Mayford,  inasmuch  as  the  Council  has 
a  home  at  Lowestoft  for  apprentices  to  the 
fishing  smacks,  whilst  other  boys  are  given 
their  start  in  life  on  farms  to  which  one  of 
their  legal  guardians,  out  of  regard  for  their 
welfare,  occasionally  pays  surprise  visits. 

Most   of  the  work  of  the  Asylums  Com- 

L.C.C.    WHARF. 

mittee  similarly  involves  its  thirty  or  forty 
members  in  journeys  out  of  London,  the 
main  body  dividing  themselves  into  sub-com- 
mittees for  regularly  visiting  the  .seven  L.C.C. 
asylums  in  the  country  around  the  Metropolis. 
It  is  one  of  the  largest  committees,  and  at  the 
same  time  the  one  for  which  there  is  least 
competition  among  the  general  body  of  the 
Council's  137  members.  This  is  not  simply 
because  of  the  exceptional  demand  it  makes 

upon  the  mem- 
bers' time  — 
several  of  them 
often  spend 
about  half  the 
week,  I  believe, 
in  visiting 
asylums  —  but 
because  of  the 
nervous  strain 
imposed  by 
constant  inter- 
course with 
hundreds  of 
painfully  af- 
flicted people. 

the  members  of 
the  Theatres 
Committee  hold 
sittings  at  the 
Clerkenwell  and 
Newington  Ses- 
sions Houses, 
sitting  one  day 
to  places 
of  entertainment 
north  of  the 
Thames,  and 
another  day  to 
license  those  situated  south  of  the  Thames. 
Nearly  all  the  other  committees  have  occa- 
sional "  views  "  to  undertake.  During  the 
summer  the  members  of  the  Parks  Committee 
spend  some  of  their  Saturday  afternoons 
driving  round  to  the  Council's  many  open 
spaces,  in  order  that  improvements  may  be 
considered  and  difficulties  grappled  with  on  the 
spot.  Once  a  year  the  Fire  Brigade  Committee 
inspects  every  fire  station  in  London,  driving 
through  each  district  in  its  turn  on  one  of  the 
Brigade  vans,  and  making  one  or  two  trips 
up  and  down  the  Thames  in  a  Brigade  tug. 



Now  and  again  the  members  of  the  Main 
Drainage  Committee  are  conveyed  from 
Charing  Cross  Pier  in  the  Council's  launcli 
Beatrice  to  see  the  progress  of  worl<  at 
Barking  and  Crossness,  where  the  sewage  of 
London  is  so  dealt  with  before  reaching 
the  river  that  whitebait  can  now  be  caught  as 
well  as  eaten  at  Greenwich,  and  there  are 
rumours  of  salmon  at  Staines.  Then  the 
Bridges  Committee  may  have  to  visit  one 
of  the  ten  Thames  bridges  which  are  under 
the  control  of  the  L.C.C.  Then,  again, 
the  Housing  Committee  must  occasionally 
make  an  expedition  to  Tottenham  and 
Edmonton,  in  furtherance  of  its  scheme  for 
the  establishment  of  a  County  Council  town 
there  with  some  40,cxx)  inhabitants ;  or 
possibly  to  some  such  place  south  or  west 
of  London,  with  a  view  to  the  purchase  of 
another  estate  for  the  accommodation  of 
overcrowded  Londoners. 

As  for  the  officials  of  the  Council,  they  are 
ubiquitous,  although  it  is  practically  only  the 
firemen  that  the  general  public  ever  recognise 

at  their  work.  In  one  street  survej'ors  will 
be  examining  an  infringement  of  what  is 
known  as  the  "  building  line " — securing 
uniform  width  of  road  and  pavement — for 
report  to  the  Building  Act  Committee.  In 
another  representatives  of  the  Public  Control 
Department  have  stopped  an  itinerant  coal- 
vendor  and  are  testing  his  weights.  This 
shop  is  visited  on  a  complaint  that  the  young 
women  employed  there  are  worked  excessive 
hours  or  are  unprovided  with  seats ;  that 
factory  is  being  surveyed  to  ascertain  whether 
it  has  adequate  means  of  exit  for  its  hundreds 
of  workers  in  the  event  of  fire.  And  so 
on  through  the  whole  range  of  social  and 
industrial  life  in  the  Metropolis.  There  are 
important  features  of  the  L.C.C. 's  administra- 
tion, such  as  the  schools  and  parks,  to  which 
I  have  only  incidentally  alluded,  for  they  are 
dealt  with  elsewhere  in  this  work.  But  in 
numberless  relatively  small  matters,  lost  in 
the  crowd  of  its  larger  activities,  the  County 
Council  day  by  day  has  its  part  in  Living 






OF  London  it  may  be  truly  said  that  the 
past  lives  in  the  present.     Turn  whither 

we  will,  we  find  sturdy  modern  institu- 
tions, fully  up-to-date  and  foremost  in  the 
ranks  of  progress,  whose  origin  dates  back  to 
a  venerable  antiquity.  Especially  is  this  the 
case  with  those  great  public  bodies,  known  to 
most  Londoners  in  little  more  than  name — 
the  City  Livery  Companies.  Some  of  their 
functions  have  become  closely  identified  with 
our  national  life.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
term  "  hall-marked."  How  many  of  us  realise 
that  we  owe  this  expression  to  the  stamping 
by  the  Companies  of  the  approved  wares 
of  craftsmen  ?  What  was  once  a  practice 
with  most  of  the  guilds  now  survives  almost 
solely  with  the  Goldsmiths'  Company,  which 
carries  out  these  duties  by  virtue  of  ancient 
charters  and  modern  statutes,  and  without 
cost,  either  direct  or  indirect,  to  the  trade 
or  to  the  public.  The  ancient  ceremony 
known  as  the  "  Trial  of  the  Pyx,"  for  testing 
the  coinage  of  the  realm,  also  takes  place  at 
Goldsmiths'  Hall,  under  the  joint  direction 
of  the  officers  of  his  Majesty's  Mint  and 
those  of  the  Goldsmiths'  Company. 


Little  is  generally  known  ol  the  inner  life 
of  these  great  corporate  bodies.  Let  us  take 
a  peep  behind  the  scenes.  The  Companies 
follow  an  ancient  order  of  precedence  which 
includes  eighty-nine  crafts.  Of  these  seventy- 
.seven  only  survive,  but  the  gaps  caused  by 
the  extinct  corporations  have  not  been  filled 
up,  each  Company  still  retaining  its  ancient 
rank.  At  the  head  of  the  list  are  the  twelve 
Great  Companies,  distinguished  from  the 
remainder  by  their  greater  wealth  and  import- 
ance. The  relative  importance  of  the  Minor 
Companies,  as  the  rest  are  called,  is  fairly 
well  indicated  by  their  position  on  the  list, 
with  but  one  or  two  exceptions.  The 
Mercers  are  the  premier  Company,  and  an  old 
dispute  as  to  seniority  between  the  Skinners 
(the  sixth)  and  the  Merchant  Taylors  (the 
seventh)  is  now  only  remembered  by  the  wise 
decision  of  the  Lord  Mayor  of  the  time,  who 
ordered  that  each  Company  should  every  year 
invite  the  other  to  dinner. 

The  governing  body  varies  in  the  different 
guilds,  but  usually  consists  of  a  Master, 
Bailiff,  or  Prime  Warden,  two  or  more  other 
wardens,  and  a  Court  of  Assistants  the  latter 



being  elected  from  the  general  body  of 
the  Company  who  are  known  as  Liverj'men. 
Another  class,  that  of  the  Freemen,  have 
no  share  in  the  government,  but  possess  a 
claim  upon  the  charity  of  the  Company. 
Substantial  fees  are  payable  to  qualify 
for  each  of  these  grades,  the  first  step 
being  to  "  take  up  the  Freedom."  Those 
who  enter  by  "  patrimony,"  as  sons  of  Free- 
men, or  by  "  ser\itude "  as  apprentices  of 
Freemen,  are  received  at  a  lower  scale  than 
"  redemptioners,"  who,  as  outsiders,  have  no 
claim  upon  the  Company  for  admission,  which 
they  can  obtain   only  by  special   consent. 

The    Master    and    Wardens   wear    gowns 
deeply  trimmed  with  fur,  and  in  certain  Com- 


panies  a  hood  is  also  worn.  Some  Companies 
provide  silver  medals  for  their  Liverymen, 
and  a  gold  badge  for  each  of  the  Assistants  ; 
others  present  a  badge  to  every  Past-Master. 
These  insignia  become  the  personal  property 
of  the  recipients,  but  the  official  badge  of  the 
Master,  a  jewel  of  far  higher  value,  is  solely 
for  official    use. 

The  election  day,  held  on  the  feast  of  the 
Company's  patron  saint,  is  the  red-letter  day 
of  the  year,  and  very  quaint  are  the  ceremonies 
observed  on  the  occasion.  These  vary,  of 
course,  in  the  different  guilds.  With 
some,  the  new  Master  and  Wardens  are 
crowned  at  table  by  the  outgoing  officials 
with  the  ancient  election  garlands.  In 
other  Companies  the  new  officials  are 
pledged   by  their  outgoing    brethren    in    the 

loving  cup  during  the  course  of  the  banquet 
Many  of  the  Companies  attend  a  neigh- 
bouring church  in  procession  to  hear  a 
sermon  before  or  after  the  election.  The 
Mercers'  Company  has  a  chapel  of  its  own 
at  its  Hall  in  Cheapside,  where  divine  service 
is  performed  every  Sunday  throughout  the 

Each  of  the  Halls  has  a  court-room,  where 
the  meetings  of  the  governing  body  are  held, 
the  Master  and  Wardens  being  clothed  in 
their  robes,  attended  by  the  Clerk  and  other 
officers  in  their  official  dress.  Our  photo- 
graphic illustration  opposite  represents  a 
sitting  of  the  Court  of  the  Cutlers'  Company, 
at  which  the  Company's  apprentices  attend  to 
show  specimens  of  their  work. 

Some  of  the  Companies  possess 
estates  in  Ireland  which  form  part 
of  the  original  Plantation  of  Ulster 
in  the  reign  of  James  I.  Two  of 
the  Companies,  the  Vintners  and  the 
Dyers,  have  important  privileges  on 
the  river  Thames,  enjoying  with  the 
Crown  the  right  of  keeping  a  "  game 
of  swans."  The  Fishmongers  per- 
form a  very  useful  public  office  in 
seizing  all  unsound  fish  brought  for 
'M         ^^'^  *^°  Billingsgate. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  work  which 
the  Companies  perform  is  in  the 
cause  of  education.  Their  public 
schools  have  a  world-wide  reputation. 
To  the  Mercers  Dean  Colet  entrusted 
his  great  foundation,  St.  Paul's 
School,  which  is  now  housed  in  a  splendid 
building  at  Hammersmith.  This  Company 
has  also  its  own  school  at  Barnard's  Inn. 
Merchant  Taylors'  School,  which  long  stood 
in  Suffolk  Lane,  is  now  more  pleasantly 
accommodated  at  the  Charterhouse.  The 
Haberdashers  are  trustees  of  the  Aske 
Schools  at  Hoxton  and  Hatcham,  the 
Skinners  have  their  famous  school  at 
Tonbridge,  and  the  Drapers,  Stationers, 
Brewers,  Coopers,  and  other  Companies  have 
well-known  and  flourishing  schools  under 
their  charge.  The  Ironmongers'  and  Haber- 
dashers' Companies,  though  possessed  of 
small  corporate  incomes,  administer  most  ex- 
tensive and  varied  educational  endowments. 

The  University  scholarships  and  exhibitions 
which  so  many   of  the   Companies  have  in 



their  gift  are  tiie  means  of  launching  man)- 
an  earnest  student  of  slender  means  upon 
a  successful  career  in  life.  But  apart  from 
their  trust  income  the  Companies  liberally 
support  the  claims  of  national  education  ; 
a  noteworth}-  instance  being  that  of  the 
Drapers'  Companj',  which  has  bestowed 
upon  each  of  the  Universities  of  Oxford 
and  London  munificent  grants  of  several 
thousands  of  pounds. 

The  City  Companies  were  the  pioneers  in 
technical  education,  and  jointly  with  the  City 
Corporation  founded  in  1880  the  City  and 
Guilds  of  London  Institute.  Here,  at  the 
Institute's  City  and  West-End  colleges, 
young  students  receive  at  moderate  fees 
practical  as  well  as  theoretical  instruction 
in  various  arts  and  handicrafts.  The  Gold- 
smiths' Company  for  long  had  an  Institute 
of  their  own  at  New  Cross,  and  the  Drapers 
extended  similar  support  to  the  People's 
Palace  in  East  London.  The  latter  insti- 
tution— already  referred  to  in  "  Institute 
London  " — combines  general  with  technical 
instruction,  and  has  a  recreative  side. 

Many  of  the  Companies  also  make  in- 
dependent provision  for  technical  instruction 
in  their  particular  crafts.  The  Carpenters 
hold  lectures  and  classes  at  their  Hall,  and 


other  Companies  hold  periodical  exhibitions, 
at  which  prizes  are  awarded  for  excellent 
workmanship.  The  Clothworkers'  Company 
follow  their  industry  to  its  principal  .seat 
in  Yorkshire,  where  they  have  established 
and  support  successful  technical  colleges. 
Another  useful  work  is  that  of  registering, 
after  examination,  duly  qualified  workmen, 
who  receive  certificates  of  competency,  and 
in  some  cases  the  freedom  of  the  Company. 
The  Plumbers  took  the  lead  in  this  direc- 
tion, and  have  sought  legislative  authority 
for  compulsory  registration.  The  Spectacle 
Makers'  and  Turners'  Companies  have  also 
taken  action  on  these  useful  lines. 

Great  as  are  the  educational  trusts  com- 
mitted to  the  care  of  the  City  guilds,  their 
charitable  endowments  are  even  more 
numerous,  and  comprise  almost  every  form 
of  practical  benevolence.  The  oldest  form 
of  provision  for  the  aged  and  decayed  guilds- 
man  was  the  almshouse.  In  many  a  quiet 
corner  of  the  City  until  recently  were  to  be 
seen  the  almshouses  of  the  various  Com- 
panies. Later  on,  the  value  of  City  land 
and  the  need  of  less  confined  quarters  led 
to  the  removal  of  these  retreats  to  more 
open  sites. 

Of  the  grants  and  subscriptions  made  by 
the  Companies  to  our  great  national  charities 
it  is  unnecessary  to  speak  :  the  donation  lists 
of  these  institutions  show  how  greatly  they 
are  indebted  to  such  munificence. 
An  entire    wing    of  the    London 
Hospital  was  built  by  the  Grocers' 
Company      at     an      e.xpense     of 
;6^25,ooo.      Some    Companies    ad- 
minister trusts  for  special  classes 
of    sufferers  —  the    Clothworkers 
and    others    have    in     their    gift 
important  charities 
"  '-  for  the  blind.    The 

Home  for  Conva- 
lescents, estab- 
lished by  the 
Merchant  Taylors' 
Company  at  Bog- 
nor,  is  free,  e.xcel- 
lently  managed, 
and  replete  with 
every  comfort. 

Each    Company 
has    a    marked    in- 



dividuality,  which  comes  upon  the  visitor  as 
a  pleasant  surprise.  At  the  election  feast  of 
the  Broderers  there  is  a  Master's  song,  which 
the  newly  elected  Master  is  required  to  sing. 
The  Fruiterers  present  every  new  Lord 
Mayor  with  a  magnificent  trophy  of  fruit, 
and  are  in  return  invited  to  a  banquet  at 
the  Mansion  House.  The  Makers  of  Playing 
Cards  present  each  guest  at  their  annual 
Livery  banquet  with  a  pack  of  cards,  the 
back  of  which  is  embellished  with  an  elabo- 
rate artistic  design.  (On  the  next  page  is  a 
facsimile  of  one  of  the  designs.)  The  Clock- 
makers  have  a  library  and  museum,  both  of 

exclusive  right  of  publication  of  any  work 
it  must  be  •'  entered  at  Stationers'  Hall," 
This  process,  which  is  effected  in  the  Registry, 
is  illustrated  on  this  page. 

The  Halls  of  the  Companies  are  among 
the  chief  public  ornaments  of  the  City. 
Some  of  the  minor  Companies  have  never 
possessed  Halls;  many  others,  whose  Halls 
were  destroyed  in  the  Great  Fire  of  London, 
or  subsequently,  did  not  rebuild  them  ;  and 

which  are  deposited  in  the  Guildhall  Library. 
At  Apothecaries'  Hall  the  aspiring  medical 
student  can,  after  duly  satisfying  the  examiners, 
obtain  a  qualification  to  practise  medicine 
and  surgery  ;  here,  too,  the  profession  and 
the  public  can  obtain  pure  drugs.  The  Gun- 
makers  have  a  proof-house  at  Whitechapel, 
where  they  examine  and  stamp  firearms. 

The  Stationers  are  strictly  a  trade  company, 
and,  like  the  Society  of  Apothecaries,  have 
a  trading  stock,  shares  in  which  are  allotted  to 
their  members  in  rotation.  Their  chief  pub- 
lications are  almanacs,  and  among  these 
is  the  authorised  edition  of  the  celebrated 
■"  Old  Moore."  Of  much  greater  importance 
are  the  duties  devolving  on  the  Stationers 
under  the   Copyright  Act.      To   secure   the 


the  number  of  existing  buildings  of  this  kind 
is  thus  reduced  to  thirty-seven.  In  most 
cases  these  sumptuous  structures  have  to  be 
sought  for,  their  street  frontage  being  insig- 
nificant. This  is  especially  the  case  with  the 
Mercers',  Drapers',  Merchant  Taylors',  and 
Clothworkers'  Halls,  where  one  enters  through 
a  narrow  doorway  into  a  veritable  palace.  The 
gardens  have  almost  all  disappeared,  but  that 
of  the  Drapers,  in  Throgmorton  Avenue,  and 
the  famous  mulberry  tree  of  the  Girdlers,  in 
Basinghall  Street,  still  afford  a  refreshing 
sight  in  summer. 

These  stately  homes  of  the  Companies  have 
the  highest  interest  for  the  connoisseur,  on 
account  of  their  many  historic  and  art  trea- 
sures, some  of  which  are  of  great  antiquity, 
while  others  are  masterpieces  of  modern  art. 
To  the  former  belong  the  specimens  of 
ancient  plate,  illuminated  records,  tapestries, 



early  paintings,  and  ancient  armour.  The 
latter  include  modern  paintings,  sculpture, 
porcelain,  etc.,  found  chiefly  in  the  Halls  of 
the  more  wealthy  Companies. 

The  privilege  of  the  Honorary  Freedom 
and  Livery  is  granted  at  rare  intervals  by 
many  of  the  guilds  to  eminent  statesmen, 
warriors,  travellers,  philanthropists,  and  others. 
Even  ladies  have  been  thus  honoured  by  the 
Turners'  and  other  Companies,  whilst  many 
of  the  guilds  permit  women  to  take  up  their 
freedom  by  patrimon}-.  Twice  in  the  year 
the  whole  of  the  Livery  are  summoned  to 
the  Guildhall — on  Midsummer  Day  to  elect 
the  Sheriffs,  and  on  Michaelmas  Da\'  to  elect 
the  Lord  Mayor  and  other  officers.  They 
have  also  a  vote  in  the  election  of  members 
of  Parliament  for  the  City.  Apprentices  are 
bound  at  the  Halls  and  encouraged  by  gifts 
and  good  advice,  receiving  also  in  some  cases 
help  to  start  in  business.  The  disobedient 
and  incorrigible  are  brought  before  the  City 
Chamberlain,  who,  in  his  court  at  Guildhall, 
has  power  to  commit  them  to  a  short  term 
of  imprisonment  at  Bridewell.  Part  of  one 
of  the  cells  in  tliis  Hospital  is  shown  in  our 
illustration  on  page  306. 

The   hospitality  of  the  Companies  is  ex- 

tended to  all  the  most  notable  in  our  land, 
and  to  distinguished  visitors  from  our  colonies 
and  from  foreign  countries.  The  Salters 
present  each  guest  with  a  pair  of  little  bone 
spoons,  a  survival,  possibly,  of  the  old  practice 
which  required  all  who  came  to  dinner  to 
bring  with  them  their  knife  and  spoon.  At 
many  of  the  Halls  the  guest  is  presented, 
on  leaving,  with  a  box  of  cakes  or  candied 
fruits,  technically  known  as  "  service." 

The  position  of  the  City  Companies  of 
to-day  is  unique,  not  only  in  the  history  of  our 
own  countr}',  but  in  that  of  the  world.  Their 
existence,  in  the  case  of  the  most  ancient 
guilds,  for  a  period  of  from  700  to  possibly 
1,000  years  ;  their  past  and  present  services 
to  the  country  ;  the  immense  trusts  of  which 
they  have  been  the  chosen  and  faithful 
almoners  ;  the  independence  and  admirable 
fitness  of  their  present  condition ;  and  the  dis- 
tinguished men  who  have  adorned  and  still 
adorn  their  roll  of  members — in  all  these  re- 
spects they  present  a  combination  of  age, 
excellence,  and  modern  vigour  absolutely 
without  parallel.  Well  may  we  join  in  the 
sentiment  of  the  toast  so  often  heard  in  their 
Halls,  "May  they  flourish,  root  and  branch, 
for  ever." 

CARD    makers'    company). 




LONDON  is  a  city  that  never  sleeps,  but  a 
>  very  large  proportion  of  its  inhabitants 
take  a  night's  rest,  and  consequently 
have  to  get  up  in  the  morning.  The  process, 
simple  enough  in  itself,  has  many  attendant 
variations.  There  are  lazy  people  who  some- 
times envy  the  domestic  dog,  who  wakes, 
stretches  himself,  shakes  himself,  wags  his 
tail,  and  is  ready  for  another  day  of  life ; 
there  are  others  to  whom  the 
ablutions  and  toilet  are 
a  delight,  not  to  be 
hurried  over  or  me- 
•chanically  performed. 

It  is  a  wonderfully 
human  picture  —  this 
rising  of  the  people  of 
a  great  city  for  the 
labours  and  pleasures  of 
the  day  —  that  would 
greet  our  eyes  could  we, 
like  Asmodeus,  lift  the 
roofs  and  gaze  within 
the  houses.  Let  us 
glance  at  a  few  of  its 

In  the  hospitals,  the 
great  palaces  of  pain, 
certain  nurses  and 
officers  remain  on  night 
duty  till  the  waking 
hour.  Between  five  and 
Jialf-past  the  sufferers 
who  are  asleep  are 
gently  roused  by  a 
nurse,  and  who 
are  able  to  get  up  begin 
to  wash  and  dress. 
Then  the  stronger 
patients,  those  who  are 
■getting  better,  make 
their  tea  and  boil  their 
•eggs  and  help  to  prepare 
breakfast  for  the 
■who    are    too    weak    to  mary  jane 

help  themselves.  By  seven  o'clock  the  wards 
are  all  awake,  the  day  nurses  have  come  on, 
and  everything  is  being  prepared  for  the 
visit  of  the  matron,  to  be  followed  by  that 
of  the  house  surgeon. 

After  the  hospital  is  up,  the  patients  who 
can  get  about  pay  little  visits  of  sympathy  to 
the  bedsides  of  their  weaker  fellow  sufferers. 
Pale  faces  appear  at  the  windows,  sunken 
eyes  look  out  upon  the  daily  life  of  the  streets, 
and,  in  fancy,  see  far 
away  to  the  home  where 
dear  ones  are  waking 
and  whispering,  maybe, 
a  little  prayer  for  the 
absent  one  fighting  the 
battle  of  life  and  death. 
But  there  are  men, 
labouring  men,  whose 
waking  hour  is  earlier 
than  that  of  the  hos- 
pitals. By  four  o'clock 
in  the  morning  certain 
workers  must  be  sum- 
moned, for  the  day's 
toil  will  begin  at  five — 
at  the  dock  gate  and 
in  the  great  markets 
you  must  be  afoot  be- 
times. In  the  common 
lodging-houses  there  is 
frequently  a  "  caller," 
who  goes  round  and 
wakes  the  heavy 
sleepers.  The  man  who 
lives  in  lodgings  and 
has  no  wife  is  occasion- 
ally roused  by  a  passing 
policeman,  who  performs 
the  friendly  act  from 
the  street. 

The    rising    of    the 
domestic  servant  is  fre- 
quently one  of  the  little 
DESCENDS.  worries     of     the     good 



housewife.  She  has  generally  a  quick  ear, 
and,  tread  Mary  Jane  never  so  softly,  should 
she  descend  the  stairs  at  a  later  hour  than 
usual  the  mistress  will  hear  her,  and  there 
will  be  "  words "  later  in  the  morning. 

Cook,  in  the  ordinary  household  in  which 
there  is  no  kitchenmaid,  is  the  first  to  rise, 
for  she  has  to  light  the  kitchen  fire  and 
prepare  the  kitchen  breakfast.  One  by  one 
the  girls  come  down,  as  a  rule  listlessl}-,  for 
domestic  service  lends  itself  to  heavy  sleep, 
and  the  household  work  of  the  day  begins. 

In  houses  where  there  is  a  nursery  it  is 
there  that  the  first  Joyous  sounds  of  a  new  day 
of  life  are  heard.  Young  children,  like  the 
birds,  have  a  habit  of  saluting  the  morning 
either  with  song  or  its  equivalent.  Romps 
are  frequently  indulged  in  before  nightgowns 
are  off  and  baths  are  ready.  There  is  an 
urgent  enquiry  for  toys  directly  the  little  eyes 
are  open.  Baby  girls  betray  the  maternal 
instinct  in  a  demand  for  dolls,  while  little 
boys  have  been  known  to  introduce,  not  only 
woolly  rabbits  and  baa-lambs  on  wheels  into 
the  nursery  bed,  but  have  frequently  emptied 
the  entire  contents  of  a  huge  Noah's  Ark  on 
the  counterpane  pell-mell  with  Shem,  Ham, 
and  Japhet,  who  have  passed  an  open-eyed 
night  in  close  quarters,  their  necks  entangled 
in  the  hind  legs  of  the  greater  carnivora. 
If,  in  a  weak  moment.  Papa  has  bought 
the  baby  boy  a 
trumpet  or  a 
drum,  music  will 
assault  the 
parental  ear  at 
an  hour  when  it 
is  least  soothing. 

It  is  not  in- 
freq  uently 
Baby's  gentle 
task  to  wake 
Mamma,  especi- 
ally if  it  is  a 
first  baby. 
When  Baby  has 
grown  to  the 
age  of  four  or 
five  he — if  it  is 
a  he — occasion- 
ally toddles  out 
of  his    bed  and 

rouses  Papa,  bringing  a  new  and  favourite 
toy  with  him.  The  fond  father,  who  wakes 
up  with  a  terrified  start  to  find  a  black  kitten 
sitting  on  his  neck,  easily  checks  his  wrath 
when  he  finds  that  it  is  his  little  son  who 
has  placed  it  there,  and  is  eagerly  waiting 
for  Daddy  to  have  a  game  of  romps  with 

The  family  getting  up  in  the  morning 
where  the  children  have  to  start  for  school 
before  nine  o'clock  is  to  many  a  mother  a 
daily  anxiety.  There  is  so  much  to  be  done 
in  a  short  time  ;  and  when  it  happens  also 
that  Papa  is  a  City  man,  who  goes  early  to 
business,  there  is  a  double  strain.  Between 
her  husband's  comfort  and  the  punctual 
despatch  of  the  children  with  the  maid,  who 
sees  them  safely  to  the  seminary,  her  time 
is  fully  occupied.  Sometimes  everything 
goes  wrong.  The  servants  begin  it  by  over- 
sleeping themselves.  There  is  trouble  among 
the  children — sometimes  a  quarrel  and  tears. 
Boots  at  the  last  moment  are  found  not  to  be 
ready  ;  a  school-book  has  been  mislaid.  Papa 
has  found  his  razors  have  been  used  by 
Master  Tom  for  wood-carving,  and  the 
shaving  process  has  involved  loss  of  time  and 

But  at  last  the  children  have  been  hastily 
despatched,  with  injunctions  to  hurry,  for 
they   are   ten    minutes   late.     At   last    Papa, 




with  a  piece  of  black  sticking- 
plaster  on  his  chin,  has  gone 
grumbling  down  the  garden 
path  on  his  way  to  the  suburban 
railway  station.  Then  the  sorely 
tried  wife  and  mother  returns 
to  the  empty  breakfast  table, 
and  has  a  strong  cup  of  tea  to 
soothe  her  nerves,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  forgets  her  family 
cares,  until  the  housemaid 
comes  in  to  clear  away.  Then 
she  takes  the  opportunity  of 
expressing  her  views  upon  early 

In  the  getting  up  of  the  idle 
classes  the  variety  is  endless,  for 
the  riser  has,  as  a  rule,  but 
himself  or  herself  to  please. 
The  society  belle  may  continue 
to  take  her  beauty  sleep  long 
after  the  ordinary  world  is  astir, 
and  then  enjoy  the  extra  luxury 
of  breakfast  in  bed  ;  or  she 
may  be  one  of  the  bright, 
healthy  English  girls  who  are 
up  betimes,  and  taking  their  morning  canter 
in  the  Row  between  eight  and  nine  a.m. 
The  young  gentleman  who,  living  in  bachelor 
chambers,  is  studying  life  from  its  late  side, 
is  not  an  early  riser.  His  valet  looks  in 
occasionally  as  the  morning  advances,  and 
finding  him  still  sleeping  retires  discreetly. 
Such  a  young  gentleman,  when  he  wakes 
to  the  consciousness  that  another  day  has 
arrived  to  be  killed,  occasionally  feels 
"  hipped,"  and  requires  a  slight  stimulant 
before  he  rises  and  performs  his  toilet,  and 
in  dressing-gown  and  slippers  lounges  into 
his  sitting-room  and  toys  with  a  carefully 
prepared  breakfast.  His  earlier  toilet  is 
not  an  elaborate  process.  He  postpones 
the  artistic  touches  until  he  is  ready  to 
saunter  out  and  allow  the  fashionable 
streets  of  the  West  to  become  aware  of 
his  presence. 

But  the  waking  up  is  not  all  comedy  even 
to  the  well-to-do  and  well  dressed.  The 
night  is  merciful  to  most  of  us  in  that  it 
brings  a  little  space  of  forgetfulness,  but 
with  the  morning  the  knowledge  of  life 
returns.  Many  a  beautiful  English  girl  opens 
her  eyes  to  the  morning  sunshine  and  finds 


no  joy  in  it,  or  in  the  song  of  the  glad  birds 
that  fill  the  air  with  melody. 

For  her  the  course  of  true  love  has 
justified  the  proverb.  There  are  jealous 
pangs  gnawing  at  her  heart,  perhaps  despair 
is  in  her  soul.  The  scene  of  last  night's  ball 
comes  back  to  her  as  the  flood-gates  of 
memory  are  opened.  It  may  have  been  only 
a  lovers'  tiff,  it  may  have  been  the  parting 
of  the  ways ;  but  it  makes  the  waking  hour 

a  sad  one,  and  the  doubting  maiden  sighs 
with  Mariana  that  she  is  weary,  and  she  rises 
with  a  pale  face  and  dresses  listlessly. 

The  morning  postman  plays  an  important 
part  in  the  domestic  drama  of  "  The  Awaken- 
ing." The  envelope  pushed  into  the  little 
box  with  the  familiar  rat-tat,  now  in  many 
districts  supplemented  by  the  vigorous  ring 
■ — for  knockers  are  .somewhat  out  of  fashion — 
may  contain  the  best  or  the  worst  of  news. 
Brought  to  the  bedside  of  the  late  sleeper 
it  may  make  his  waking  hour  one  of  tragedy 
or  flood  the  room  with  sunlight  on  the 
foggiest  November  day. 



The  letter  may  be  eagerly  expected,  or 
anticipated  with  dread.  It  comes  at  hist, 
and  nearly  al\va\s  by  the  first  post.  If 
you  are  in  doubt  as  to  the  view  \\hich 
the  Fates  have  taken  of  the  situation,  you 
either  tear  the  envelope  open  hastily  with 
trembling  fingers  or  you  turn  it  over  and 
over  and  then  put  it  aside  for  a  while,  post- 
poning the  verdict  as  long  as  possible. 

In  many  a  little  home  the  morning  letter 
ma\-  mean  ruin  or  salvation.  The  young 
clerk  out  of  a  berth,  with  a  wife  and  child 
to  keep,  has  sent  in  his  application  for  a 
situation  that  has  been  advertised.  He  has 
mentioned  his  references  ;  he  has  spent  his 
last  sixpence  in  postage  stamps.     When  he 


wakes  in  the  morning— lying  late,  as  he 
has  no  work  to  do — his  anxious  wife  stands 
by  his  bedside  with  a  letter. 

He  takes  it,  but  dreads  to  open  it.  Is  it 
a  mes.sage  of  hope  bidding  him  call  at  a 
City  office,  or  is  it  the  stereotyped  reply  which 
some  firms  are  courteous  enough  to  send  to 
applicants  if  they  are  not  too  numerous? 

The  wife  waits  ;  the  man  sits  up,  and, 
nerving  himself  for  his  fate,  tears  the  envelope 
open.  Tremblingly  he  unfolds  the  letter  and 
scans  the  contents.  "  Thank  God  !  "  he  cries, 
"  Thank  God ! "  There  is  no  need  to  say 
more.  The  loving  little  wife's  eyes  fill  with 
grateful  tears  as  she  falls  on  her  knees  and 
puts  her  arms  round  her  husband's  neck. 
The    letter    lies    open    on    the    counterpane ; 

she  can   read  the  glad   news.     "  Mr. is 

requested  to  call  at  the  City  office.  If  his 
references  are  satisfactor}-,"  etc.,  etc 

There  are  certain  days  in  our  lives  when 
most  of  us  wake  with  eager  anticipation  of 
the  postman's  burden.  The  birthday  means 
loving  greetings  from  relatives  and  friends 
long  after  it  has  ceased  to  mean  presents,  and, 
because  it  is  still  customary  to  consider  the 
knocking  off  of  another  year  of  our  allotted 
span  as  a  feat  to  rejoice  at,  most  men  and 
women  who  have  retained  the  "joy  of  living" 
wake  smilingly  upon  their  birthday  morn 
and  ask  for  their  letters. 

The  waking  of  the  dramatist  on  the 
morning  after  the  production  of  his  new  play, 
of  the  actors  and  actresses  who  have  taken 
part  in  it,  is  largely  influenced  by  the 
previous  night's  reception ;  but  all  are  anxious 

"to  see  the  papers" 
'iU"|if  1  which  are  brought 
to  them  with  their 
morning  tea.  No 
matter  what  may 
be  happening  in 
the  world,  no 
matter  how  mo- 
mentous may  be 
the  events  of  the 
day,  theatrical  folk 
^_,  have     only     one 

4^^J^    *^^i*  thought  when  they 

~"  ^  open    the    great 

journals.      They 
scorn    the   leaders, 
'     '  and    spare    not    a 

glance  for  the  latest  news.  The  criticism  of 
the  new  play  is  the  printed  matter  in  which 
their  interest  is  centred.  They  read  notice 
after  notice,  sometimes  with  a  smile, 
.sometimes  with  a  frown.  On  the  nature  of 
the  notices,  so  far  as  they  are  individually 
concerned,  depends  the  humour  in  which  the 
player  folk  will  get  up  in  the  morning. 

There  are  times  when  the  "  paper  in  bed  " 
makes  half  the  country  rise  gloomily  from 
slumber.  The  news  of  a  disaster  to  England's- 
arms,  of  a  terrible  accident  at  sea,  of  the 
death  of  a  popular  member  of  the  Royal 
Family,  affects  the  spirits  of  the  whole 
thinking  community.  There  have  been  days 
when  all  London  has  risen  with  an  aching^ 
heart,  and  gone  .sadly  and  wearily  forth  to 
the  day's  work. 

And  there  are  days  when  the  greater  part 
of  London  rises  gaiiy.     These  are  the  days 



of  national  rejoicing,  of  street  pageantry,  of 
general  holiday-making.  The  spirit  of  the 
gala  day  is  infectious  ;  even  those  who  can 
take  no  part  in  it  have  a  kindly  sympathy 
with  it,  and  get  up  with  a  sense  of  pleasure 
which  has  no  part  in  the 
ordinary  working  day. 

So  vast  is  London,  and  so 
small  the  area  usually  covered 
by  a  public  pageant,  that  early 
rising  is  the  order  of  the  day 
on  most  of  these  occasions. 
The  police  regulations  compel 
the  crowd  to  concentrate  on 
the  given  points  long  before 
the  hour  of  procession.  Then 
the  knuckles  of  the  housemaid 
knock  at  the  bedroom  door  at 
an  unaccustomed  hour,  and 
there  is  no  turning  of  the 
sluggard  for  the  "  slumber 
again."  Habitual  late  risers 
are  invariably  the  first  to  get 
up  on  these  occasions.  They 
make  elaborate  over-night  pre- 
parations for  not  being  late 
down,  and  are  among  the 
earliest  in  the  streets.  If  the 
morning  is  fine  and  warm,  they 
descant  loudly  on  its  beauty, 
and  announce  their  intention 
of  turning  over  a  new  leaf  and 
enjoying  the  early  hours  of 
London's    sunshine    more   fre- 

quently.     Rut    promises 
are  rarely  kept. 

On  Sunday  morning  the 
majority  of  Londoners  take  "  an 
e.xtra  hour  "  in  bed.  There  are 
good  folk  who  go  to  early  ser- 
vice, and  many  Roman  Catholics 
who  go  to  early  mas.s.  There 
are  people  bound  for  distant 
country  trips  who  are  up  and 
about  before  the  life  of  the  day 
begins  ;  but  as  a  rule  the  .ser- 
vants have  a  little  indulgence, 
and  breakfast  is  later.  The 
workers,  enjoying  the  relief 
from  labour,  and  accepting 
Sunday  as  a  "  day  of  rest," 
interpret  the  phrase  literally, 
and  take  a  portion  of  it  in  bed. 
The  "  getting  up "  is  a  slower  and  more 
elaborate  process.  The  creeping  hands  of 
the  clock  inspire  no  terror  of  lost  trains,  the 
warning  horn  of  the  express  'bus  will  not 
sound  to-day,  and  church,  which  is  generally 





close  at  hand,  does  not  begin  till  eleven. 
In  humble  homes  Mother  is  up  and  about 
long  before  F"ather ;  for  the  children  must 
be  dressed  neatly  and  sent  to  Sunday 
school,  with  credit  to  themselves  and  their 

All  the  hopes  and  fears  of  life  come  home 
to  London  in  its  waking  hour.  Some  of 
its  children  rise  with  their  hearts  elate  and 
their  nerves  braced  for  high  endeavour  ; 
others  wake  with  a  sigh  for  the  days  that  are 
no  more,  and  with  grim  forebodings  for  the 

The  bride  of  the  day,  her  heart  full  of 
love  for  the  man  whose  life  she  is  to  share, 
wakes  for  the  last  time  in  the  old,  familiar 
home.  Some  little  mist  may  gather  in  her 
eyes  as  she  thinks  of  the  parting  from  those 
who  have  been  beside  her  always  until  now, 
and  she  is  filled  with  vague  wonder  as  to 
how  the  new  tie  may  mould  and  fashion  the 
life  that  is  to  be. 

But  she  has  given  her  heart  long  ago,  and 
to-day  she  is  to  give  her  hand.  And  so  love 
overcomes  all  the  pain  of  parting,  and  hope 
is  in  her  heart,  though  the  tears  may  be  in 
her  eyes  as  she  looks  round  the  little  room 
for  the  last  time,  and  begins  the  elaborate 
preparations  that  lead  up  to  the  bridal  dress 
and  veil  and  the  little  family  circle  of  admira- 
tion, before  she  timidly  goes  down  the  steps 
to  the  carriage  leaning  on  her  fathers  arm, 

and  is  driven  away  to  change  her  name  and 
be  linked  by  a  golden  fetter  to  the  man  of 
her  heart. 

And  there  is  one  waking  hour  on  which 
all  thoughts  are  concentrated  now  and  again 
as  the  days  go  by. 

When  the  hour  of  doom  is  to  sound  for 
a  fellow  creature,  the  hour  known  and  fixed 
beforehand,  many  a  man  and  many  a  woman 
wake  with  a  feeling  of  intense  pity — not  so 
much,  perhaps,  for  the  condemned  criminal 
as  for  those  who  love  him. 

When  a  hanging  morning  dawns  on  London 
our  thoughts  go  out  to  the  condemned  cell  in 
which  a  fellow  creature  is  waking  from  his 
last  sleep  on  earth. 

It  is  said  that  most  of  these  unhappy  ones 
sleep  soundly  until  the  warder  approaches 
and,  gently  touching  them,  bids  them  rise 
and  prepare  for  the  awful  moment  that  has 

It  is  not  good  to  dwell  upon  this  waking 
scene.  But,  with  all  its  horror,  the  mental 
torture  for  the  victim  is  a  question  of  an  hour 
or  two  at  most. 

But  for  the  mother,  the  wife,  of  such  a  man. 
Ah  !  God  help  them  in  their  waking  upon 
that  fatal  day.  The  pity  of  every  human 
heart  is  theirs  when  the  hour  of  doom  strikes 
upon  their  listening  ears,  and  they  know 
that,  far  away  from  them,  to  son  or  to  husband 
the  awful  end  has  come. 

I.V    THE    CONDKM.NED   CP:lL. 







^RADE  followed 
the  flag !  Trade 
was  a  chubby 
fellow  about  the  height 
of  an  umbrella,  with  an 
empty  bottle  clutched 
tightly  under  his  arm. 
With  his  left  hand  he 
helped  along  a  tiny  mite 
who  was  as  yet  but  a 
novice  in  the  art  of 
walking.  The  mite's 
left  fist,  about  the  size 
of  a  small  tomato,  was 
clenched  desperately.  It  was  an  exciting 
moment  ;  the  eyes  of  the  children  proclaimed 
it.  Fifty  or  sixty  yards  away  was  the  man 
selling  flags  and  windmills,  his  handcart 
surrounded  by  an  eager  crowd  of  juveniles. 
What  a  calamity  it  would  be  if  the  two 
arrived  on  the  scene  only  to  find  his  stock 
sold  out !  Their  troubles  were  not  quite  over 
when,  breathless,  they  reached  the  spot  ;  for, 
though  there  were  plenty  of  flags,  there  was 
still  some  danger  that  they  might  have  to 
wait  for  their  proper  turn  amongst  a  dozen 
customers.  In  the  Borough  you  never  wait 
for  your  turn.  You  make  it,  and  take  it. 
The  elder  boy  was  a  staunch  Imperialist. 
He  handed  over  his  bottle  and  accepted  a 
miniature  Union  Jack  reverently.     The  babe 

solemnly  opened  his  fist  and  looked  at  his 
halfpenny.  What  would  it  be — flag  or  wind- 
mill, windmill  or  flag?  His  small  soul  was 
torn  with  doubt,  yet  they  cruelly  hurried  him. 
Then  he  took  a  windmill,  just  because  he 
wanted  a  flag,  and  toddled  away  broken- 
hearted to  cry  his  big  blue  eyes  out  for  his 
folly  and  his  halfpenny. 

The  toffee-man  enjoys  beyond  all  his  peers 
the  admiration  of  the  juniors  amongst  the 
rising  generation.  They  would  make  him 
a  Minister  of  the  Crown  if  only  in  his  flight 
to  Downing  Street  he  would  forget  to  leave  a 
deputy-warden  of  his  stock-in-trade.  The 
toffee-man  manufactures  his  sweetstuff"  under 





the  e\-es  of  his  patrons. 
In  this  respect  he 
differs  from  all  his 
rivals.  In  Farringdon 
Street,  Fleet  Street,  the 
Strand,  Ludgate  Hill, 
and  many  other  tho- 
roughfares pedestrians 

are  tempted  with  nougat  and  American 
caramels,  Turkish  delight,  and  other  mys- 
terious compounds  set  out  on  handcarts 
with  some  pretence  at  artistic  effect. 

Besides  the  street  confectioners  and 
fruiterers,  who  pander,  of  course,  to  mere 
lu.xur)',  there  is  a  legion  of  men  and  women 
who  make  a  living  out  of  the  sale  of  homely 
delicacies.  Some  of  these  are  nearly  as  well 
known  as  though  their  names  figured  in 
beautiful  gilt  letters  over  a  shop  in  Piccadilly 
or  O.xford  Street.  Watercress  is  much 
favoured  by  Londoners,  and  the  numberless 
hawkers  who  trade  in  it  find  a 
ready  sale  for  their  stock.  The 
shrimp -sellers  hardly  command 
such  extensive  patronage,  but  they 
nevertheless  cater  largely  for  the 
metropolitan  tea-table.  In  many 
quarters  there  is  a  brisk  demand 
for  mufifins  and  crumpets  ;  nor  is 
there  any  lack  of  customers  for 
fritters.  The  fish  hawker  is  a 
regular  feature  of  street  life.  In 
the  eastern  districts  especially  his 
hand-cart  is  a  great  aid  to  the 
humble  housekeeper  in  varying 
the  daily  menu. 

The    baker,   the   milkman,   and 

the  saltman  ma)-  not  be  popular  idols,  but 
from  a  commercial  point  of  \iew  their  posi- 
tion is  impregnable.  The  milkman  labours 
under  the  imputation  of  slavishly  imitating 
the  early  rising  habits  of  the  lark.  A  sleepy 
age  might  forgive  him  the  plagiarism  ;  what 
e.xcites  its  wrath  is  the  spirited  reveille  he 
performs  with  his  tin  cans  on  the  area 

Most  of  those  who  culti- 
vate a  street  industry  adhere 
absolutely  to  one  line  of 
business.  Take  the  men  who 
hawk  hats  —  and  there  are 
many  of  them  —  they  never 
think  of  bartering  any  other 
article  of  dress.  Almost  any 
day  one  can  buy  a  brand 
new  silk  hat  for  five  or  six 
shillings  in  certain  streets. 
The  seller  is  usually  also  the 
maker,  which  accounts  for  its 
cheapness.  Its  pattern  might 
not  be  the  theme  of  universal 
laudation  at  a  church  parade ;  but  hats  are 
worn  at  other  places.  Then  there  is  the 
vendor  of  hats  that  have  seen  their  zenith, 
and  in  the  autumn  of  their  days  are  glad 
to   find   a    resting  place  on   anybody's  head. 


They  are  at  the 
best  second-hand ; 
and  at  the  worst, 
goodness  knows 
how  many  hands 
they  have  passed 
through.  But  the 
best  as  well  as 
the  worst    go    for 


a  song. 



Needles  and 

and      similar 

for      women's 



of  the  limited  liability 
companies  which 
exist  for   purposes   of 


use  are  hawked    from 

house  to  house  in  the 

poorer  neighbourhoods,  while  many  an  honest 

penny  is  turned  by  the  sale  of  plants  suitable 

for  suburban  gardens. 

To  one  man,  at  all  events,  London  never 
metes  out  hard  times.  It  is  always  the 
harvest  of  the  chimney-sweep,  whose  familiar 
cry  brings  his  calling  within  the  category 
of  Street  Industries.  One  sees  him  every- 
where, and  the  richness  of  his  workaday 
complexion  serves  as  well  as  an  auditors' 
report  to  demonstrate  his  prosperity.  On 
Sundays  he  often  drives  out  with  his  family, 
happy  in  the  consciousness  that  neither  war 
nor  pestilence  can  eliminate  soot  from  this 
beautiful  world.  The  window-cleaner  is 
almost  equally  happy  so  far  as  business 
is  concerned,  for  the  climate  is 
his  faithful  ally.  Sometimes  he 
is  a   permanent  servant  of  one 


There   is, 
quite     an 

this    trade 

army  of  window-cleaners  who  work  for 
themselves.  These  are  often  Jacks-of-all- 
trades,  ready  to  put  in  a  pane  of  glass  as 
well  as  to  polish  it. 

The  coal  man  is  known  by  his  cry.  As 
he  leads  his  horse  through  the  streets  he 
occasionally  curves  his  hand  round  his  mouth 
and  indulges  in  a  demoniacal  yell,  which  is 
doubtless  his  professional  rendering  of  "  Coal ! 
Coal ! "  Nobody  understands  him ;  everybody 
hears  him  !  Another  familiar  street  trader  is 
the  greengrocer,  who  carts  his  stock  from  door 
to  door,  and  whose  brisk  business  many  a 
shopkeeper  might  envy.  The  china-mender 
is  a  less  striking  figure  in  the  streets  than 
the  chair-mender.  When  the  latter  is  at 
work  a  contingent  of  children 
belonging  to  the  neighbourhood 
generally  act   as   his   overseers. 


UI.I)    HA'i'S. 





he  is  assisted 
by  his  wife, 
somet  i  mes 
he  labours 
in  single 
the  chair- 
mender  is  a 
woman — the 
wido\\',  \'cry 
likely,  of  one 
of  the  trade. 
The  broken 
chair  is 
taken  to  a  quiet  square  or  to  a  retired 
quarter  of  the  pavement,  and  there  operated 
upon.  The  industry  is  far  from  being  as 
good  as  it  once  was. 

The  periodical  visits  of  the  scissors-grinder, 
with  his  impressive  machinery,  is  an  event  in 
the   more  gloomy  streets  of  the  Metropolis. 

It  could  not 
well  be 
seeing  the 
fuss  his 
w  heel 
makes,  not 
to  speak  of 
the  sparks 
he  sends 
flying  when 

a  knife  bearing  signs  of  long  and  arduous 
ser\ice  is  submitted  to  his  tender  mercies. 
Judging  b)'  appearances,  the  scissors-grinder 
is  often  one  who  has  acquired  a  hankering 
after  "  cold  steel "  in  the  ranks  of  the  King's 
army.  Saw  sharpening  is  much  less  show)% 
much  less  exciting.  There  are  no  sparks, 
and  but  a  poor  substitute  in  the  form  of 
a  diabolical  noise  that  might  well  set  even 
artificial  teeth  on  edge.  To  the  butcher,  how- 
ever, it  is  a  delicate' operation,  to  be  watched 
with  the  same  solicitude  as  a  Paderewski 
might  bestow  upon  his  piano  when  in  the 
tuner's  hands. 

Street    manufacturers    are    not    numerous. 
Amongst  them,  however,  must    be  reckoned 




the  old  ladies  who  make  holders  for  kettles 
and  irons.  The  tinker  is  never  at  a  loss  for 
opportunities  to  practise  his  calling  ;  and  his 
wife,  with  the  most  praiseworthy 
industry,  adds  to  the  family  income 
by  making  wire  stands  for  flower- 
pots and  similar  trifles,  which  she 
hawks  from  house  to  house.  That 
fishing  nets  should  still  be  made 
by  hand  at  a  seaside  village  seems 
only  natural  ;  but  to  see  them  in 
process  of  manufacture  in  a  London 
thoroughfare  lends  an  unexpected 
suggestion  of  poetry  to  a  prosaic 
scene.  Greater  dignity,  however, 
belongs  to  the  woolwork-picture 
maker,  for  he  is  an  artist.  With 
his  needle  and  thread  he  launches 
coquettish  yachts  on  frolicsome 
waves,  and  dots  the  horizon  with 
armadas.     The  photographer  is  an 



aristocrat  amongst  those  who  make  a  living 
in  the  streets.  The  engraver  on  glass  finds 
his  patrons  mainly  amongst  publicans,  though 
glass  ware  has  now  become  so  cheap  that  his 
services  are  little  needed. 

One's  sympathies  go  out  to  the  shoeblack 

more  than  to  any  other 
class  of  street  industrial- 
ist, except  perhaps  the 
flower-girl.  Little 
wonder ;  for  his  life  is  a 
hard  one,  his  earnings  are 
sometimes  precarious,  and 
yet  he  is  always  civil, 
and  apparently  content 
with  a  small  payment. 
The  shoeblacks,  following 
the  example  of  more 
important  crafts,  have 
trade  societies.  Of  these  the 
oldest  and  most  important 
belongs  to  the  City.  Its  mem- 
bers, like  those  of  the  Borough 
organisation,  wear  red  jackets. 
Blue  is  the  colour  of  the 
fraternity  in  East  London.  In 
Marylebone  they  affect  white, 
and  at  King's  Cross  brown.  Some  of  the 
more  well-to-do  members  of  the  trade 
provide  chairs  for  their  patients,  with 
convenient  pedestals  for  the  feet.  To  the 
average  customer  five  minutes  in  one  of  these 
imposing  chairs  must  be  rather  trying.  It  is 
probably  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  modest 
patrons  to  bear  with  equanimity  the  "splendid 
isolation  "  of  the  position  that  the  proprietors 
sometimes  keep  on  hand  a  supply  of  periodical 
literature.  One  remarkable  member  of  the 
corps  has  a  partner  in  the  business — a  cat. 
Since  the  days  of  her  kittenhood  she  has  been 

in  the  trade.  A  most  worthy  cat  she  is  in 
all  respects,  her  one  fault  being  a  pronounced 
spice  of  vanity.  At  a  word  of  praise,  such  as 
one  might  let  drop  as  a  matter  of  course  with- 
out any  thought  of  flattering  a  reprehensible 
weakness,  she  arches  her  back  and  rubs 
against  your  ankles,  purring  in  an  ecstasy  ol 

Step-cleaners  in  the  Metropolis — "  step- 
girls  "  they  are  usually  called — are  legion.  It 
is  a  curious  calling,  but  those  who  follow  it  no 
doubt  prefer  it,  with  all  its  drawbacks,  to 
employment  which  would  impose  restrictions 
on  their  liberty.  As  a  class  they  are  in  a 
sense  alien  to  the  hard-driven  sisterhood 
of  more  mature  years  who  offer 
their  services  as  charwomen.  The 
vendor  of  fly-paper  is  more  than 
a  business  man,  he  is  a  humani- 
tarian. He  displays  samples  of 
his  goods  on  his  hat,  a  mode  of 
advertisement  that  is  frequently 
productive  of  painful  surprises  to 
the  unthinking  fly.  Many  humble 
workers  eke  out  an  existence  by  pre- 
paring firewood.  The  pulling  down 
of  an  old 
bu  ilding 
comes  as 
a  godsend 
to  these 
The  rotten 
timber      is 

bought  for 
next  to 
nothing,  and 
cut  into 
small  pieces. 
It  is  then 
through  the 
poorer  quar- 
ters in  a 
barrow,  and 
sold  by 

I.  COAI.S.  n.  FI.Y-PAPEKS. 



The  parts  that  are  too  tough  to  be  sawn  up 
are  called  "  chump  wood."  There  is  firewood 
and   firewood !      It    is   a    prosaic    trade   till 


Christmas  comes. 
Think  of  the  logs 
flaming  and  crackling 
in  the  grate  on  a 
December  night — tJic 
Night  —  when  the 
blinds  are  drawn,  and 
the  light  shines  on 
the  faces  of  loved 
ones,  and  transmutes 
to  gold  the  mistletoe 
berries,  and  to 
globules  of  glistening 
crimson  the  ripe  holly 
fruit.  The  Yule-log 
man  is  not  there,  he 
is  out  in  the  shadows; 
but  he  has  thrown 
the  glamour  of  poetry 
over  that  English 

Perhaps  the  day  is  wet. 
man    offering    sacks    to 


is  now  a  pathetic  figure  amongst  the  army  of 
street  dealers  ;  his  trade  is  no  longer  what  it 
was.  The  man  who  buys  old  iron  is  one  of 
the  few  who  make  a  living  on  the  streets  by 
paying  out  money  rather  than  taking  it 

What  cannot  you  buy  in  London's  high- 
ways ?  Here  is  a  hawker  with  feather  dusters 
on  cane  handles,  and  another  with  brushes  of 
all  sorts  and  sizes.  There  are  artificial 
flowers  of  tints  to  make  a  botanist  green  with 
envy,  and  artificial  butterflies  of  tropical 
brilliancy.  A  man  with  "  counter  cloths  " — 
used  for  mopping  up  the  liquor  which  over- 
flows from  customers'  glasses — is  disappearing 
into  a  public-house. 
At  your  heels  is  a 
locksmith  rattling  a 
hundred  keys  on  a 
huge  ring.  The 
traffic  in  old  leather 
bags  and  portman- 
teaux is  limited.  On 
Saturday  nights  you 
may  see  a  barrow 
laden  with  them  in 
the  neighbourhood  of 
a  cheap  restaurant  or 
a  big  public-house. 
On  Sunday  after- 
noons in  summer 
choice  fruits  are 
hawked  noisily 
through  the  residen- 
tial streets  of  the 
west.  But  in  summer 
and   winter,    through 

Here  is  a  sales- 
keep  out  the  rain. 
This  one  is  old  and  blind,  and  in  other  days 
was  a  miller.  He  is  useful  still  ;  for,  though 
some  people  are  above  facing  the  weather  in 
a  closely  woven  sack,  there  are  carters  and 
scavengers  and  errand  boys  who  think  little 
of  fashion  and  much  of  a  dry  skin.  A  parcel 
has  to  be  .sent  post-ha.ste  ;  you  can  purchase 
the  services  of  a  licensed  messenger  at  the 
nearest  corner.  You  drive  up  to  your  door  in 
a  four-wheeler.  Before  you  have  stepped  on 
to  the  pavement  a  couple  of  rivals  for  the 
privilege  of  helping  with  your  luggage  have 
appeared  as  if  by  magic.      The  clock-mender 


every  night  of  the  year,  there  is  a  delicacy 
on  sale  which  shames  the  language  of  eulogy 
— the    baked    potato.       There  it   is,    big   as 



a  melon,  and  piping  hot,  its  jacket  of 
brown  crisped  in  parts  to  big,  shiny,  coal- 
black  blisters. 

The  children  of  Little  Italy  supply  a  fair 
proportion  of  those  who  trade  in  chestnuts 
and  ice-cream.  Often  the  Italian  cannot 
speak  a  word  of  English.  What  does  it 
matter!  The  coppers  of  his  customers  are 
sufficiently  explanatory.     In  the  City  and  the 


leading  arteries  of  the  town  business  is  good, 
but  one  can  only  marvel  how  the  chestnut 
man  in  the  quieter  districts  wards  off  starva- 
tion— sometimes,  indeed,  famine  must  press 
close  upon  his  heels.  There  is  a  young 
Sicilian  who  rolls  his  barrow  to  one  of 
the  sleepiest  of  the  central  London  squares. 
Why  he  should  select  such  a  pitch  is  a 
mystery.  For  hours  the  nuts  on  his  fire 
crisp,  and  crisp,  and  burn ;  yet,  except  on 
Sundays,  hardly  a  coin  comes  his  way.     In 


the  deepening  gloom  of  a  winter's  evening, 
when  the  tide  of  life  sets  homewards,  one 
sometimes  sees  a  group  of  children  gathered 
round  him.  They  are  not  buying.  They  are 
gaping  at  him  in  silence,  hypnotised  by 
his  pinched  face,  his  great  haggard  eyes,  his 
air  of  patient,  abject  poverty.  The  tattered 
dreamer,  the  wondering  children,  the  battered 
furnace,  form  a  strangely  unreal  picture,  half 
buried  in  the  shadows  that  swathe  the  square. 
The  man  is  a  helpless,  hapless,  stricken 
lotus-eater  ;  the  melancholy  antithesis  of  the 
eager,  alert,  strenuous  army — the  tireless, 
dauntless  army,  of  all  ages  and  all  nations 
— who  wring  a  livelihood,  copper  by  copper, 
in  the  fair  way  of  trade  from  the  countless 
simple  needs  of  the  World's  Emporium. 








/  is  a  para- 
dise  of 
birds.  Here 
you  may  see, 
b  e  t  w  e  e  n 
January  and 
December,  a 
wealth  of  bird 
life  which  can 
scarcely  be 
paralleled  in 
any  equal 
area  in  the 
British  Isles. 
The  Metro- 
polis is  one 
vast  preserve; 
and  there  is  no  other  city  where  such  interest 
is  taken  by  the  people  in  the  birds. 

All  have  watched  the  gulls  on  the  Thames, 
with  their  outlying  flocks  that  spread  into  St. 
James's  Park,  making  the  sky  white  with 
their  pinions,  or  flecking  the  river  with  silver- 
grey  patches  as  they  settle  on  its  bosom.  At 
the  working  man's  dinner-hour  there  will  be 
few  among  the  crowds  that  line  the  Embank- 
ment who  have  forgotten  their  feathered 
friends.  The  gulls  swoop  down  to  the 
parapet  to  seize  the  food  thrown  to  them  in 
the  air,  the  bolder  ones  coming  so  near  as  to 
be  within  hand's  reach,  but  all  fearless  from 
past  experience  of  their  treatment.  Here  is, 
then,  the  link  between  man  and  the  gulls. 
The  birds  have  learnt  that  it  is  pleasanter 
to  spend  the  winter  on  a  sheltered  river, 
where  people  provide  them  with  food,  than 
to  forage  on  the  sea-shore,  when  close-time 
is  over,  and  the  plume-hunter  is  on  the  look- 
out for  "  wings." 

London  has  its  share — its  full  share — of 
sparrows.  They  swarm  everywhere ;  they 
nest  under  the  eaves,  in  trees,  bushes,  in  ivy 
and  other  climbing  plants,  and  the  predatory 
cat   takes  heavy  toll  of  their  young.     They 

come  to  the  window-sill  for  breadcrumbs, 
squabble  in  the  streets  for  the  corn  dropped 
from  the  nosebags  of  the  cab  horses,  and 
carry  off  dainty  morsels  from  beneath  the 
bills  of  larger  birds.  They  soon  learn  to 
know  their  friends.  A  gentleman  feeds  those 
in  Hyde  Park  and  St.  James's  Park.  The 
birds  fly  to  meet  him,  circle  round  him,  and 
have  grown  so  tame  that  they  will  take  food 
from  his  hand. 

The  London  pigeons  are  as  familiar  as 
those  of  Venice,  from  which  they  differ  in 
being  the  pets  of  the  people,  not  of  visitors. 
Illustrations  on  the  opposite  page  show  how 
they  are  fed  outside  the  Guildhall  and 
in  Hyde  Park.  Similar  scenes  may 
be  witnessed  any  day  round  St.  Paul's 
Cathedral,  where  are  two  colonies  —  one 
frequenting  the  east  and  the  other  the  west 
end  of  the  building — that  do  not  intermix. 
At  the  British  Museum  many  of  the  regular 
visitors  to  the  Reading  Room  make  a  practice 
of  bringing  food  for  the  pigeons  that  come 
flying  down  from  their  resting  places  among 
the  statuary  of  the  pediment.  Let  me  de- 
scribe a  pretty  incident  of  which  I  was  an 
eye-witness.  The  children  of  a  boarding 
school  were  feeding  some  birds  which  were 
enjoying  the  feast,  and  hard  by  was  a  group 
of  poorly-clad  girls  and  boys,  looking  on  with 
wistful  eyes.  A  dainty  little  miss,  after  con- 
sulting her  governess,  left  her  companions, 
and  pressed  her  bag  of  food  into  the  hands 
of  one  of  the  astonished  children.  East  and 
west  were  immediately  united  in  the  pleasant 
task  of  feeding  the  birds. 

Among  the  strangest  facts  of  London  bird- 
life  are  the  numbers  and  the  tameness  of  the 
wood-pigeons  which  began  to  settle  here  about 
1880.  In  St.  James's  Park,  in  many  of  the 
squares,  and  on  the  Embankment,  they  may 
be  seen  strutting  about  quite  fearlessly 
heedless  of  the  presence  of  man.  This  is 
in  strong  contrast  to  their  wildness  in  the 
country.     They  are  summer  visitors — leaving 



V.    FEEDING    THE    DUCKS    IN    ST.    JAMES's    PARK. 



A    BIRD    SHOP    ON"    WHEPXS. 

US  in  the  autumn  to  return  again  in  spring, 
and  many  nest  here.  Birds,  and  of  course 
other  animals,  have  means  of  communication 
of  which  man  knows  nothing,  beyond  the 
fact  that  it  exists.  A  naturaHst,  passing 
through  a  West-End  square,  saw  a  soHtary 
wood-pigeon.  He  scattered  some  corn  on  the 
ground,  of  which  the  bird  picked  up  a  few 
grains,  and  then  flew  off  in  the  direction  of 
St.  James's  Park.  It  returned  in  a  few 
minutes  accompanied  by  its  mate.  It  had 
evidently  imparted  the  good  news  that  there 
were  free  rations  for  wood-pigeons  within 
easy  distance. 

London  is  a  great  centre  for  homing 
pigeons,  which  so  many  people  miscall 
"  carriers."  As  one  comes  into  town, 
especially  on  the  east  side,  one  must  notice 
the  dormer  windows  leading  into  the  lofts 
of  the  pigeon-flyers.  Not  that  pigeon-racing 
is  confined  to  the  East-End.  The  King  and 
the  Prince  of  Wales  are  among  its  patrons. 
At  a  race  of  the  London  North  Road  Federa- 
tion thirty  birds  from  the  royal  lofts  were 
tossed  with  the  rest ;  and  at  a  show  at  the 
Royal  Aquarium  birds  from  the  Sandringham 
lofts  have  been  exhibited.  The  London  homers 
fly  to,  wot  from,  the  Metropolis.  Their  power 
of  finding  their  way  back  is  due  to  training 
for  condition  and  for  knowledge  of  the  route, 
over  which  they  are  tossed  at  constantly  in- 
creasing distances.  Even  with  this  training  a 
considerable   percentage   of  birds   is    lost  in 

long-distance  races.  Some 
of  the  London  newspapers 
still  employ  homing 
pigeons  to  bring  "  copy  " 
and  sketches  from  Epsom 
and  the  'Varsity  Boat 

"  Fancy  "  pigeons  are 
largely  kept,  bred,  and 
exhibited.  At  the  Crystal 
Palace  and  the  Royal 
Aquarium showsare  penned 
the  finest  specimens  of  the 
numberless  varietie.s.  Here 
are  heavily  wattled  carriers, 
snaky  magpies,  pouters 
swelling  with  the  sense  of 
their  dignity,  snowy  fan- 
tails  that  emulate  the 
peacock  in  display,  and  a 
host  of  other  breeds,  nearly  every  one  of 
which  has  its  special  club,  all  governed  by 
the  rules  of  the  Pigeon  Club,  which  takes 
cognisance  of  matters  relating  to  the  "  fancy  " 

Rookeries,  with  the  exception  of  the  colony 
in  Gray's  Inn,  are  confined  to  the  suburbs. 
Interference  with  the  trees,  as  in  Kensington 
Gardens,  has  driven  the  birds  away.  But  one 
may  be  pretty  sure  of  seeing  a  magpie  in 
Regent's  Park,  the  jay  in  some  of  the  out- 
lying districts,  and  an  occasional  jackdaw. 

In  all  the  parks  the  ornamental  waterfowl 
are  a  great  feature ;  and  feeding  the  birds 
constitutes  one  of  the  chief  pleasures  of  the 
children.  The  stately  swan  is  conspicuous 
among  the  ducks  and  geese.  The  dabchick 
and  moorhen  have  nested  on  some  of  the 
lakes  ;  the  kingfisher  and  mallard  have  been 
noted  on  the  Regent's  Canal ;  and  the  ring- 
plover  has  been  photographed  on  her  nest 
within  the  postal  district.  From  time  to  time 
the  surplus  stock  of  waterfowl  belonging  to 
the  County  Council  is  sold  in  Battersea  Park. 
The  parks  have  become  the  home  of  a 
number  of  species  of  smaller  birds  that 
there  find  sheltered  nesting  places.  In  the 
County  Council  parks  miniature  aviaries 
have  been  erected,  in  which  many  bright- 
plumaged  species  are  kept,  to  the  delight  of 
the  visitors. 

Bird-lovers  are  social.     In  one  of  the  large 
rooms    at    a    famous   West-End    restaurant, 



after  a  modest  dinner,  the  members  of  the 
British  Ornithologists'  Club  discuss  matters 
relating  to  birds,  and  exhibit  rare  specimens. 
The  East-End,  too,  has  its  social  evenings, 
devoted  not  so  much  to  exhibition  as  to 
singing  contests,  in  which  the  birds  seem  to 
take  as  much  interest  as  their  owners. 

Pet-Land  is  an  extensive  region,  with 
boundaries  that  cannot  be  strictly  defined. 
Just  as  "one  man's  meat  is  another  man's 
poison,"  so  one  man's  pet  may  be,  and  often 
is,  the  abhorrence  of  his  next-door  neighbour. 
The  man  whom  Shylock  quoted  as  unable 
to  abide  the  "  harmless,  necessary  cat "  was 
neither  the  first  nor  the  last  of  his  kind. 
Nevertheless,  he  may  have  had  a  Pet-Land 
of  his  own,  though  its  limits  were  too  strait 
to  admit  of  Puss  dwelling  therein.  To  feline 
as  well  as  to  canine  pets,  however,  I  need 
merely  refer,  for  they  have  'oeen  already 
dealt  with  in  the  article  on  "  Cat  and  Dog 

The  providing  of  pets  is  a  distinct  calling. 
In  many  of  the  places  where  costermongers 
have  their  "  pitches "  may  be  seen  a  bird 
stall,  usually  with  a  pretty  good  stock. 
Here,  at  a  reasonable  price — perhaps  from  a 
perambulating  dealer — one  may  buy  a  grey 
parrot,  with  an  unimpeachable  character  as 
to  language,  a  gaily-plumaged  pafrakeet,  or 
a  cockatoo.  Java  sparrows  and  other  East 
Indian  finches  are  here  in  plenty.  The 
buyer  who  wants  a 
British  bird  can  be 
supplied,  for  the  stock 
includes  a  jackdaw,  a 
magpie,  a  jay,  larks, 
starlings,  blackbirds, 
thrushes,  linnets,  bull- 
finches, and  a  goldfinch 
or  two.  These  dealers 
will  also  supply  cages 
— gorgeous  affairs,  re- 
splendent with  brass 
and  gilding — for  their 
permanent  residence, 
or  small  wooden 
structures  in  which  to 
take  the  new  pets 
home.  When  the  pur- 
chaser declines  to  pay 
the  few  pence  asked 
for    a    small     wooden 

cage,  the  bird  is  deftly  put  into  a  paper 
bag,  with  the  corners  twisted  up,  and  so 
carried  off  by  its  new  owner. 

From  the  street-dealers  other  pets  may 
be  procured — gold-fish  for  the  aquarium ; 
pond-tortoises,  as  surely  carnivorous  as  the 
land-tortoises  (mendaciously  warranted  to 
clear  the  garden  of  slugs)  are  vegetarians ; 
green  lizards  imported  from  the  Continent ; 
the  smaller  lizards  of  our  own  country  and 
their  legless  relation,  the  slow-worm  ;  newts, 
brilliant  in  nuptial  attire,  with  a  waving  crest 
all  down  the  back  ;  Wack-and-yellow  .sala- 
manders from  Central  Europe  ;  and  tree-frogs, 
scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  the  leaves 
on  which  they  have  taken  up  their  position. 

Larger  and  rarer  pets  are  to  be  obtained 
from  the  shops  where  such  things  are 
made  a  speciality.  Does  the  purchaser  want 
a  monkey?  The  dealer  will  show  him  a 
macaque  from  India,  a  green  monkey  from 
Africa,  or  a  capuchin  from  South  America, 
and  might  guarantee  to  deliver  a  gorilla 
within  a  reasonable  time.  Are  lemurs 
more  to  his  taste  ?  Here  are  all  sorts 
and  sizes,  from  the  tiny  "  mouse "  he  can 
carry  away  in  his  pocket,  to  the  ruffed 
lemur,  as  big  and  as  fluffy  as  a  Persian  cat. 
Would  he  like  a  suricate,  or  meerkat,  as  the 
C.I.V.'s  learnt  to  call  this  funny  little  beast 
in  South  Africa  ?  There  are  half  a  dozen 
sitting  bolt-upright,  like  tiny  mungooses,  and 




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m   ilk     - 


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scratching  away  at  the  wire-netting  in  vain 
efforts  to  get  out.  A  few  armadilloes  are 
pretty  sure  to  be  in  stock  ;  and,  if  something 
specially  "creepy"  is  wanted,  there  is  no  lack 
of  snakes,  or  a  few  baby  crocodiles  may 
be  produced  for  inspection. 

In  such  a  shop  there  is  sure  to  be  plenty  of 
bird.s — Indian  mynahs  that  "  talk,"  the  rarer 
parrots  and  parrakeets,  the  monstrous-billed 
toucans,  and  a  host  of  others  to  be  seen  year 
after  year  at  the  Cage  Bird  Shows.  There 
are  special  shops  where  the  stock  consists  of 
canaries  of  various  breeds — Norwich,  Hartz 
Mountain  Rollers,  Lizards,  etc.  — •  fancy 
pigeons,  poultry,  and  waterfowl. 

Children  affect  guinea-pigs,  rabbits,  white 
mice  and  rats.  Birds  require  too  much 
attention  for  them,  and  will  not  bear  the 
vigorous  display  of  interest  the  average  child 
takes  in  its  pets.  Guinea-pigs  may  be 
handled  and  rabbits  carried  about  by  the 
ears  without  ill-consequences  ;  while  mice 
and  rats  will  thrive  under  conditions  that 
would  soon  kill  any  cage-bird.  A  little  girl 
of  my  acquaintance  has  a  pretty  pet  rat, 
which  is  tame  and  affectionate.  Immediately 
its  cage  door  is  opened  it  runs  to  her,  climbs 
on  her  shoulder,  and  waits  to  be  fed. 

The  goat  is  the  pet  of  the  children  of  the 
poor,  and  may  be  said  to  be,  in  some  degree, 
their  playmate.  It  has  also  another  charac- 
ter— it   is   their   draught  animal  ;  and   some 

of  them  show  considerable  ingenuity  in 
utilising  an  old  box  for  a  carriage  and  scraps 
of  rope  for  harness. 

There  are  not  very  many  London  dwell- 
ings in  which  a  pet  of  some  kind  is  not 
kept.  Among  the  labouring  classes  who 
have  migrated  to  town  from  rural  dis- 
tricts larks  and  blackbirds  are  in  high 
favour,  and  the  song  brings  back  memories 
of  green  fields  far  away.  The  poor  are 
always  considerate  towards  their  pets,  and 
many  instances  are .  known  in  which  they 
have  denied  themselves  necessaries  that  their 
favourites  should  be  fed. 

Everyone  will  recognise  the  first  illustration 
on  this  page  as  characteristic  of  not  a  few 
London  homes,  especially  in  the  suburbs. 
Some  rail  at  the  cruelty  of  keeping  caged 
birds  ;  but  even  in  the  case  of  those  that  have 
been  deprived  of  their  freedom  there  is 
another  side  to  the  question — the  brightness 
these  petted  little  prisoners  bring  into  dull, 
grey  human  lives.  That  all  caged  birds  are 
not  unhappy  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  some, 
when  released,  have  returned  of  their  own 
accord.  They  are  well  fed  and  cared  for, 
and  the  loss  of  liberty  is  not  too  high  a 
price    to  pay  for  such  advantages,  to  which 




must  be  added  security  from  their  natural 

The  fowls  and  ducks  of  suburban  gardens 
are  on  the  confines  of  Pet-Land  rather  than 
true  denizens  ;  but  many  fanciers  make  pets 
of  their  poultry,  especially  of  stock  birds 
whose  progeny  have  won  honours  in  the  show- 

The  monkey,  from  its  intelligence  and 
affection,  is  a  king  of  pets,  when  its  propensity 
for  mischief  can  be  kept  within  due  bounds. 
If  a  census  could  be  taken  of  the  pet  monkeys 
in  London,  the  number  would  come  as  a 
surprise  to  most  people.  The  temper  of  these 
animals  is,  however,  somewhat  uncertain ; 
and  some  which  are  on  their  best  behaviour 
with  the  master  will  scratch  and  bite  the 
children  or  the  maids.  The  Monkey-House 
at  the  Zoological  Gardens  is  a  sort  of 
penitentiary  for  such  naughty  pets. 

The  second  illustration  on  the  opposite  page 
represents  a  collection  of  pet  lemurs  and 
squirrel  monkeys  probably  unequalled  in  this 
country.  The  animals  are  kept  in  roomy 
cages,  with  space   for  exercise  ;   the  house  is 

just  warm  enough,  with  a  current  of  pure  air 
flowing  through.  They  are  well  cared  for 
by  the  man  in  charge,  but  their  owner  and 
friend  would  feel  he  had  missed  a  pleasure  if 
he  omitted  to  visit  them  at  least  once  a  day 

The  lady  to  whom  the  lo-foot  python 
shown  on  page  324  belongs  is  exceedingly 
proud  of  it,  as  she  may  well  be,  for  it  is  a 
fine  reptile,  quite  tame,  and  seemingly  de- 
lighted to  be  handled  by  its  mistress,  and 
showing  no  sign  of  resentment  when  taken 
up  by  others.  Every  Friday  it  is  treated 
to  a  swim  in  a  large  bath,  and  the  next 
day  it  gets  its  weekly  meal. 

The  care  shown  for  wild  birds  and  for  pets 
of  all  kinds  is  repaid  a  thousand-fold  by  the 
pleasure  derived  from  the  consequent  fear- 
lessness in  the  one  case  and  the  affection  in 
the  other.  A  bond  of  sympathy  is  thus 
established  between  Man  and  the  lower 
animals  over  which  he  has  dominion.  But 
the  care  of  pets  imposes  obligations,  and 
these  will  be  best  discharged  if  we  resolve — 

"  Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 

With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels." 

A    STUEKT    lilKn    STALL, 



MATCHBOX    FILLING    (MESSRS.    R.    BELL   AND   CO.,    LTD.). 



WE  are  early  astir  to-da)'.  The  resi- 
dential west  is  like  a  city  of  the 
dead :  not  a  blind  is  up ;  save  for 
a  few  stragglers — a  weary-eyed  policeman 
or  two,  a  white-faced  night-bird  in  evening 
dress  tramping  to  his  rooms,  and  a  sprinkling 
of  loafers — the  streets  are  deserted.  The 
only  sound  that  breaks  the  stillness  is  the 
clatter  of  our  cab-horse's  hoofs.  En  route 
to  the  east  we  pass  the  great  City  work- 
rooms, affording  employment  to  thousands 
of  men,  women,  and  girls  —  tailors,  dress- 
makers, shirt -makers,  milliners,  tie- makers, 
makers  of  artificial  flowers — too  many,  in 
fact,  to  name.  Little  by  little  the  .scene 
changes.  As  each  mile  is  covered  it  be- 
comes more  animated.  The  drama  of 
the  day  is  beginning.  London's  toilers 
are  turning  out,  multiplying  minute  by 
minute,    and     as    the    tall    chimneys    come 

into  view  we  are  plunged  into  a  stream  of 
hurrying  humanity  that  carries  everything 
before  it.  The  humble  homes  are  sending 
forth  their  wage-earners.  A  kiss  on  the 
doorstep,  a  wave  of  the  hand,  and  the  father 
or  mother  has  joined  the  great  throng. 

It  is  a  many-sided  crowd,  a  crowd  repre- 
senting almost  every  nationality  in  Europe, 
and  every  kind  of  man,  woman,  and  child. 
A  picture  of  more  violent  contrasts  you 
could  not  imagine.  Extreme  age  walks  side 
by  side  with  adolescent  youth,  and  rude 
health  brings  out  in  sharp  relief  the  pallid 
features  of  the  consumptive.  Every  turning 
helps  to  swell  the  tide,  which  sweeps  on 
fast  and  furious  until  at  length  there  is  a 
diversion.  We  are  now  in  a  factory  quarter 
of  London,  and  the  crowd  suddenly  scatters. 
A  thousand  eager  souls  race  for  this  building, 
another   thousand    for   that.      The  rest   dis- 



appear  through  big  gates  as  if  by  magic. 
There  are  factories  for  the  preparation  of 
almost  everything  that  mortal  man  can 
desire  —  for  tinned  meats,  jams,  biscuits, 
pickles,  cheap  clothing,  hats,  babies'  food, 
mineral  waters,  sweets,  cakes,  soap,  matches, 
tobacco,  pipes,  jewellery,  upholstery,  leather, 
pottery — indeed  it  is  difficult  to  call  to 
mind  a  single  article  in  everyday  use  in 
the  manufacture  of  which  the  Metropolis  is 
not  concerned. 

The  average  person  has  little  idea  of  the 

arrayed  in  many  colours  have  just  trooped  in. 
They  are  match-makers,  and  the  factory 
belongs  to  Messrs.  R.  Bell  and  Co.,  of  Bromley- 
by-Bow.  Picture  to  yourself  a  gigantic  room, 
clean  and  airy.  To  the  right  a  couple  of 
drums  in  charge  of  women  are  revolving, 
and  on  these  drums  are  strands  of  cotton — 
a  hundred  of  them,  and  each  one  2,500  yards 
in  length.  On  its  way  from  one  drum  to 
the  other  the  cotton  is  drawn  through  a  pan 
of  hot  stearin  until  its  coating  of  wax  is  of 
the  required  thickness.     It  is  then  put  aside, 


immensity  of  London's  Factory-land  or  of 
the  vast  number  of  people  who  find  employ- 
ment there.  In  its  busy  hives  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  workers  are  engaged  day  by 
day  in  performing  some  essential  service  to 
the  British  race  ;  and  it  is  not  too  much  to 
say  that  if  its  factories  were  to  disappear 
this  big,  ever-growing  city  would  be  bereft 
of  half  its  strength. 

Let  us  visit  that  huge  place  opposite,  the 
yard  of  which  is  stacked  with  timber.  A 
regiment  of  bright-looking  women  and  girls 

and  when    it    is  sufficiently  firm    it  is  given 
over  to  the  young  woman  on  our  left. 

She  is  a  fine-looking  girl.  Quietly  dressed 
and  with  an  air  of  responsibility  about  her, 
she  is  a  young  mother.  Her  husband  is 
employed  at  the  soap  works  hard  by,  and 
though  some  one  has  to  tend  the  babies 
during  the  day  she  is  happy — happy  because 
there  are  two  incomes  to  maintain  the  bairns 
in  plenty.  Her  daily  output  is  2,500,000 
match  stems.  Watch  her.  She  has  a  cutting 
machine  all  to  herself,  and  as  the  strands  of 



wax  flow  into  the  frame  she  presses  her 
thumbs  at  a  certain  spot,  and  behold  a 
hundred  stems  are  cut.  Her  thumbs  never 
wear)'.  The  stems  ready,  up  the_\-  go  to  the 
roof  to  be  dipped.  A  man  stands  at  a  shib 
on  which  is  spread  the  composition — a  thick 
paste.  He  tai<es  a  frame  and  presses  it  on 
to  the  slab,  and  in  ten  seconds  you  have 
10,000  finished  matches.  If  anj'  one  should 
suffer  from  the  deadly  "  phossy  jaw "  this 
man  should,  for  he  has  been  dipping  matches 
for  a  quarter  of  a  centur\-,  but  he  breathes 
the  air  of  Heaven — the  kindly  proprietors, 
who  do  not  look  upon  their  employes 
merely  as  so  many  machines,  lay  stress  on 
this — and  as  a  further  precaution  fans  are 
kept  going  throughout  the  day  to  drive 
away  the  fumes. 

No  one  is  idle  here.  Big  strapping  girls 
are  making  wooden  boxes  at  the  rate  of 
120  gross  a  day  :  others  are  filling  the  boxes 
with  matches  at  a  speed  that  beggars  descrip- 
tion ;  while  over  the  way  men  are  cutting 
timber  for  wooden  "  lights "  with  knives  as 
sliarp  as  razors. 

If  time  did  not  press  there  would  be  much 
more  to  see,  but  we  are  due  at  Hackney 
Wick  to  witness  2,000  men  and  women 
making  sweets. 

The  factory  of  Messrs.  Clarke,  Nickolls 
&  Coombs  supplies  the  sweet  -  toothed 
brigade  of  Great  Britain  with  2,000  varieties 
of  sweets,  and  so  agreeable  is  the  stuff  that 
in  the  course  of  twelve  months  from  fifteen 
to  twenty  tons  of  it  are  consumed  by  the 
employes  themselves.  Step  into  this  building 
by  the  railway  where  the  workers  are  a 
hundred  strong.  Some  are  boiling  sugar  in 
great  pans  ;  some  are  kneading  a  thick,  jelly- 
like,  transparent  substance  that  we  have  never 
seen  before.  It  is  sugar  and  water.  One 
woman  is  especially  vigorous,  and  we  admire 
her  biceps.  Presently  she  flings  her  jelly 
on  to  an  iron  peg  and  proceeds  to  pull  it 
about  with  the  strength  of  a  Sandow.  In 
two  or  three  minutes  it  resembles  a  beautiful 
skein  of  silk.  Later  on  it  will  go  through 
a  rolling  machine,  from  which  it  will  emerge 
a  delicious  sweetmeat. 

There  are  few  more  curious  sights  than 
those  that  are  presented  at  a  sweet  factory. 
On  our  tour  of  inspection  we  drop  into  the 
fondant    room.      It   is    full   of    grey-headed 

women.  But  they  are  not  aged.  Their 
greyness  is  merely  starch.  Wash  away  the 
starch  and  you  have  pretty  young  English- 
women. These  grey-faced  damsels  make 
the  starch  moulds  into  which  the  fondant 
material  in  its  licjuid  state  is  dropped  to  be 
properly  shaped.  Walk  upstairs  and  you 
have  a  contrast.  An  apartment  is  reserved 
for  the  exertions  of  half  a  dozen  girls  whose 
complexions  are  of  a  rich  coffee  colour. 
Brown  as  a  berry,  we  put  them  down  as 
thorough-bred  Africans.  But  they  are 
Cockneys,  and  brown  only  because  they 
dabble  in  coffee  and  cocoa  beans.  They 
are  experts  in  chocolate. 

What  an  industry  this  is !  Men  and 
women,  old  and  young,  scrupulously  clean, 
2,000  of  them,  are  working  for  dear  life. 
Literally  tons  of  sweets  are  in  the  process 
of  making.  Suddenly  a  bell  clangs.  It  is 
the  dinner  hour.  Labour  ceases  on  the 
instant,  and  700  women  troop  into  the  great 
dining-hall,  where  penny,  twopenny,  and 
threepenny  meals  are  in  readiness.  There 
is  some  chaffing  going  on  to-day,  and  on 
inquiry  we  learn  that  a  chocolate  specialist 
is  about  to  be  married.  As  she  has  been 
making  sweets  for  five  years  the  good- 
natured  firm  will  present  her  with  a  five- 
pound  note  on  her  wedding  day. 

We  will  now  introduce  ourselves  to  the 
soap-worker.  Stand  on  tip-toe — we  are  in 
the  factory  of  Messrs.  Edward  Cook  and  Co., 
of  Bow — and  peer  into  that  colossal  pan. 
The  perspiring  individual  by  our  side  is  the 
soap-boiler,  and  the  tumbling  yellow  liquid 
that  we  see  is  soap  in  its  first  stage.  There 
are  a  hundred  tons  of  it,  and  the  men  are  pump- 
ing it  into  an  iron  vessel.  Passing  through 
iron  pipes  into  an  adjoining  room  it  flows 
into  frames,  where  it  remains  for  forty-eight 
hours  until  it  has  cooled.  They  are  extra 
busy  to-day.  One  lot  of  frames  is  already 
cold,  and  the  men  are  attacking  the  soap — 
great  solid  blocks  over  half  a  ton  in  weight. 
These  blocks  are  carried  away,  and  busy 
hands  will  presently  cut  them  up  into 

Women,  girls,  and  boys,  as  well  as  men, 
find  employment  here.  It  is  a  case  of  soap 
in  every  nook  and  cranny.  One  woman  is 
engaged  on  toilet  soap.  As  the  slabs  are 
pushed  into  the  mill  she  adds  the  colouring 



matter  and  pours  in  the  sweet-smelling  scent,     and  they  make  cigars  all  day  long,  from  two 

Round  and  round  goes  the  mill,  and  presently 
the  soap  is  thrown  out  in  beautiful  long 
ribbons.  These  ribbons  are  subsequently 
put  into  a  machine  which  binds  them.     Tons 

to  three  hundred  per  day  apiece.  There  is 
no  busier  spot  in  the  universe  than  a  tobacco 
factory.  Scrutinise  these  men  ;  read  their 
faces.     Doggedness  is  written  all  over  them ; 


upon  tons  of  soap  are  in  preparation.  One 
group  of  workers  is  marking  soap  for  hotels, 
clubs,  shipping  companies,  etc.  Not  a 
moment  is  wasted.  Study  the  face  of  that 
young  bread-winner  in  the  blue  blouse.  It 
is  as  clear  as  noonday  that  she  is  thinking 
of  her  home  One  of  a  little  group,  she  packs 
up  soap  from  early  morning  till  dewy  eve. 
And  observe  that  lad  over  there.  He  is  the 
sole  support  of  a  widowed  mother.  As 
a  shop  boy  he  might  be  worth  five  or  si.x 
shillings  a  week,  but  here  as  a  soap-wrapper 
he  earns  double  that  sum. 

Glance  now  at  our  photographic  picture 
of  a  corner  of  a  department  in  the  great 
tobacco  factory  belonging  to  Messrs.  Salmon 
and  Gluckstein,  Clarence  Works,  City  Road. 
In  this  room  are  employed  some  250  persons 
— Englishmen,  Scotsmen,  Welshmen,  Irish- 
men, Frenchmen,  Germans,  Scandinavians, 
Dutchmen,    Belgians,    Poles,    and     others — 

their  fingers  are  never  idle  ;  their  backs  never 
ache.  As  soon  as  a  man  has  finished  his 
hundred  cigars  away  he  rushes  to  get  enough 
leaf  to  produce  another  hundred.  He  earns 
on  an  average  from  £2  los.  to  .^3  a  week. 
In  the  next  room  women  are  just  as  busy. 
These  are  stripping  the  stalks  from  the 
leaves ;  those  are  sorting  the  leaves  for 
quality  ;  to  the  right,  men  are  employed  in 
preparing  the  leaf  for  the  cigar  maker.  Ic 
other  rooms  you  find  girls  busily  engaged  in 
banding,  bundling,  and  boxing  cigars,  which 
are  then  passed  on  for  maturing.  In  an  ad- 
joining department  cigarette  making  is  in 
progress  on  a  colossal  scale,  and  many 
machines  are  here  running  at  a  high  rate  of 
speed,  producing  huge  quantities  of  cigarettes 
hourly.  Apart  from  these  machines,  very 
large  numbers  of  men  and  women  are  en- 
gaged in  making  cigarettes  by  hand. 

The  whole  factory  is  a  beehive  of  activity 



Yet  despite  the  feverish  movements,  which 
form  the  chief  characteristic  of  this  splendidly 
equipped  establishment,  there  is  a  pleasant 
sense  of  comfort  about  the  place.  Of  stuffi- 
ness there  is  none  ;  every  room  is  well  lighted 
and  ventilated,  and  both  men  and  women  are 
not  only  interested  but  happy  in  their  work. 
Perfection  of  organisation  and  consideration 
for  the  welfare  and  health  of  the  employ(fs  are 
apparent  throughout  this  huge  and  up-to-date 
tobacco  factory. 

Down  at  Lambeth,  at  Messrs.  Doulton's, 
we  have  the  artistic  factory  hand — the  potter. 
The  clay  is  brought  by  ship  and  barge  from 
the  pits,  and  when  it  has  been  crushed, 
washed,  and  mixed  is  passed  on  to  the 
potter.  Come  into  the  potter's  room.  There 
he  is  at  his  wheel  spinning  round  a  piece 
of  clay  that  is  soon  to  be  a  tea-pot.  He  is 
a  genius  this  fellow,  and  has  innumerable 
differently-shaped  articles  to  his  credit.  Close 
by  a  muscular  little  fellow  is  committing  a 
violent  assault  and  battery  on  a  lump  of  clay. 
Dashing  it  down  on  a  slab,  he  punches  it  for 
all  he  is  worth.  There  is  humour  in  his 
bright  young  eye  ;  he  belongs  to  a  boxing 

club.     He   is  not    playing,   however.     He    is 

"  knocking  the  wind  out  of  it,"  so  to  speak, 
so  that  when   he  hands  it   to   the  potter  the 

latter  will  have  no  difficulty  in  dealing  with 

it.     From   the   potter's   room  we   go  to  the 

turners'  room.     Here  a  dozen  men  are  giving 

our   potter's    vessels — they   have    been    put 

aside   for    a   while    to    get    stiff — the 

finish   necessary    for   decorative  pur- 
poses.    Each  man 

is     working     his 

hardest.     The   big 

fellow  to  our  right 

is   putting    on 

handles     and 

spouts  ;   the  small 

boys  who  look  so 

chirpy    carry     the 

vessels     away — on 

their  heads — when 

they   are  complete 

and    ready    for 

Downstairs     are 

the    studios.      The 

one  we  stop  at    is 

tenanted     entirely 

by  ladies.  Twenty  of  them  are  seated  at 
a  table.  They  are  colouring  and  decorating 
the  ware  prior  to  its  despatch  to  the  kilns. 
The  colours  are  all  very  quiet  in  effect,  but 
will  ultimately  be  developed  by  the  firing. 
Now  to  the  kilns  below.  One  of  them  is 
as  big  as  a  house.  It  is  choke-full  of  ware. 
Stokers  are  here,  there,  and  everywhere, 
and  the  fires  are  at  white  heat.  The 
kilns  are  unapproachable,  so  fierce  are  the 
flames ;  yet  the  jugs  and  the  candlesticks 
and  the  teapots  and  every  other  sort  ot 
ware  must  remain  in  that  fiery  furnace  for 
nine  days.     Such  is  the  work  of  the  potter. 

By  way  of  a  change  we  will  visit  a  babies' 
and  invalids'  food  factory  at  Peckham.  To- 
day at  Messrs.  Mellin's  they  are  making 
enough  food-stuff  to  fill  a  hundred  thousand 
little  stomachs  for  a  month.  The  factory 
is  a  mass  of  food.  British  babies  must  be 
fed,  and  men  and  women  are  scurrying 
hither  and  thither  intent  on  one  purpose 
only — the  nourishing  of  the  young.  Yet 
there  is  absolute  cleanliness  and,  strange  to 
say,  scarcely  any  noise.  The  food  is  non- 
farinaceous,  or  starch  free,  and  in  the  process 
of  manufacture  the  wheaten  flour  and  malt 
after  saturation  are  transformed  at  a  certain 
temperature  and  then  strained  through  the 
finest  of  sieves  and  taken  into  vacuum  pans 

THE    POTTEli    AT    WOKK    CMESSRS.    DOi;i,T0X    AND   CO.,    LTD.). 



of  great  capacity — five  in  number — in  which 
the  liquid  is  evaporated  until  the  result  is 
a  fine  powder.  A  great  point  of  interest  in 
connection  with  the  food  is  that  it  is  un- 
touched by  hand. 

The  next  process  is  the  most  interesting 
of  all  ;  but  we  must  see  this  for  ourselves, 
so  we  will  look  into  the  bottling  department. 
A  number  of  men  are  standing  at  a  narrow- 
table.  At  the  far  end  is  the  bottling 
machine.  At  the  top  is  a  hopper,  and  a 
conveyer  feeds  the  machine  which  rotates 
and  fills  the  bottles — four  thousand  in  an 
hour.  And  the  men  ?  They  are  working 
like  mad,  for  the  bottles  are  being  carried 
along  the  table  by  an  endless  chain, 
and  each  man  has  .something  to  do 
and  something  that  must  be  done  in  a 
second.  One  is  putting  a  strip  of  cork  into 
the  mouths  of  the  bottles  as  they  travel  by, 
another  is  dropping  in  the  stoppers,  a  third 
is  pressing  the  stoppers  down,  and  so  on. 
It  is  a  kind  of  magic.  Upstairs  women  are 
wrapping  the  food  as  fast  as  they  can  go. 
Baby  is  clamouring,  and  his  appetite  must, 
of  course,  be  appeased,  and  at  a  break-neck 
pace  too. 

And  now  before  quitting  Factory  Land 
let  us  glance  at  those  who  produce  "  Living 

MELLLn's   food,    LTD.). 

London."  The  vast  printing  works  of  La 
Belle  Sauvage  are  teeming  with  life.  We 
will  not  wait  to  count  the  men,  because  their 
name  is  legion,  but  we  will  count  the 
machines.  There  are  forty  of  them  in  the 
basement,  besides  others  in  different  parts 
of  the  immense  buildings,  and  monthly 
magazines  and  weekly  periodicals,  presently 
to  be  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  globe, 
are  being  reeled  off  at  the  most  furious 
rate.  So  great  are  the  bustle  and  the  din 
that  it  is  impossible  to  hear  one's  self  speak. 
Those  machines  over  yonder  are  printing 
"  Living  London."  The  boys  at  the  top, 
as  agile  as  young  monkeys,  are  slipping  in 
the  paper,  one  sheet  at  a  time.  Away  it 
goes,  round  rolls  the  sheet  over  the  type,  and 
out  it  comes  at  the  other  end.  It  falls  into  a 
tray,  and  a  clean  shaven  man,  very  wide- 
awake, having  satisfied  himself  that  it  is 
perfect,  it  is  left  where  it  is  until  the  tray 
is  full.  Before  anything  further  can  be  done 
the  ink  must  be  allowed  to  dry,  so  the 
hillock  of  sheets  is  put  into  a  lift  and  sent 
up  to  the  next  floor  to  the  drying  room. 
In  this  chamber  "  Living  London  "  remains 
for  a  couple  of  days,  when,  the  ink  being 
dry,  it  goes  away  to  a  machine  to  be  cut 
up  into  sheets  of  eight  pages. 

Ascend    now   to   the  fourth  storey,  to  an 



airy  room  which  is  full  of  women.  Several 
thousands  of  sheets  have  just  come  up. 
This  young  woman  with  the  jet-black  hair 
is  looking  after  a  machine  which  is  folding 
the  sheets  into  four ;  her  colleagues  at  the 
tables  are  folding  them  by  hand.  Further 
on  we  introduce  ourselves  to  a  battalion  of 
British  maidens  armed  with  long  needles. 
They  are  sewing  the  folded  sheets  together. 

From  the  sewing  department  "  Living 
London "  proceeds  to  an  adjoining  room, 
where  it  is  bound  into  parts.  Observe  that 
big  man  with  the  enormous  glue  pot.  A 
pile  of  stitched  parts  of  "  Living  London  " 
is  by  his  side,  and  he  is  smearing  the 
backs  with  glue.  As  fast  as  each  pile  is 
finished  it  is  passed  on  to  another  regiment 
of  women,  who  fix  on  the  outside  covers : 
and  then  the  copies  are  trimmed  and  tied 
up  in  parcels.  How  many  hundreds  of 
parcels  lie  before  us  one  is  unable  to  say, 
but  presently  an  attack  is  made  on  them. 
A  number  of  broad-shouldered  men  appear 
and  pack  them  away  in  the  lift,  which 
conveys    them    to    the    ground    floor,    from 

which  they  are  transferred  to  the  publishing 
department,  where  for  the  time  being  we 
leave  them.  Returning  early  on  publishing 
day  we  witness  one  of  the  busiest  and 
most  interesting  scenes  in  the  world  of 
print.  La  Belle  Sauvage  Yard  is  crammed 
with  vehicles.  Newsagents'  carts,  carriers' 
carts,  railway  vans  block  up  the  entire 
space ;  while  from  the  publishing  office  per- 
spiring men  and  boys  are  hurrying  out  with 
stacks  of  "  Living  London "  and  other 
publications  on  their  backs.  One  by  one  the 
carts  and  vans  pass  out  with  their  loads, 
and  "  Living  London "  has  started  on  its 
journey  across  the  English-speaking  globe. 

Such  is  the  useful  life  of  some  scores  of 
thousands  of  dwellers  in  the  great  city. 
When  the  hands  of  the  clock — how  anxiously 
they  are  watched ! — point  to  six,  seven,  or 
eight,  as  the  case  m.ay  be,  comes  the  hour 
of  release.  The  bells  begin  to  sound,  the 
streets  are  once  more  full,  and  the  factory 
worker  heads  for  home,  happy  in  the 
consciousness  that  a  good  day's  work  has 
been  accomplished. 

PRINTING    "living    LONDON"    (.MESSRS.    CASSELL   AND   CO.,    LTD.). 





"Cinder  tbe  IDoine. 


Th£    QuARTERlV    MaoaZINE-   nF 

Beihum   RofAL  HosmAL. 


ROM  Whitehall  the  roads  of  Lunatic 
London  radiate  in  all  directions — to 
the  "  mental  "  wards  in  workhouses, 
to  Bcthlem  and  St.  Luke's  Hospitals,  to 
private  asylums  and  the  more  distant  county 
institutions,  to  remote  suburban  solitudes 
where  doctors,  unknown  to  most  of  their 
clientele,  have  charge  of  "  single  patients." 

Whitehall  is  the  hub,  because  there  is 
situated  the  office  of  the  Commissioners  in 
Lunacy,  under  whose  care  the  law  places 
all  who  are  certified  to  be  mentally  deranged. 
But  a  number  of  those  found  insane  by 
inquisition  —  "  Chancery  lunatics  "  —  are 
detained  in  private  houses  and  chartered 
hospitals,  and,  being  frequently  .seen  by  the 
Lord  Chancellor's  visitors,  they  are,  as  a 
result,  most  carefully  looked  after. 

I-'or  those  lowest  in  the  social  scale — 
pauper  lunatics — the  is  usually 
the  first  place  of  custody.  Bright,  well- 
fitted  rooms  are  here  their  quarters  unless 
they  become  violent,  when  they  are  placed 
in  a  padded  room.  Padded  room !  The 
sound    conjures    up    all    sorts    of  unpleasant 

visions.  But  the  newest  type  of  such  prisons 
is  as  comfortable  as  maniacal  fury  warrants. 
It  is  about  three  feet  wide  and  seven  feet 
high,  and  lined  throughout — top,  bottom, 
sides,  and  door — with  perfectly  smooth 
padded  rubber,  more  yielding  than  a  pneu- 
matic tyre  inflated  for  a  lady's  weight. 

Lunatics  not  suitable  for  treatment  in  the 
workhouse  are  transferred  sooner  or  later  to 
the  county  a.sylum.  They  are  sent  away 
singly  or  in  batches,  and  then  London  may 
see  them  no  more,  may  never  hear  of  them 
again.  Sometimes  a  man  is  lost  to  the  outer 
world  for  ever  when  he  leaves  the  poorhouse 
gate,  and  never  in  more  pathetic  circum- 
stances than  when  he  is  absolutely  unknown. 

This  is  of  a  truth  one  of  life's  tragedies. 
A  poor  creature,  found  wandering,  is  brought 
to  the  workhouse  by  a  policeman.  "  What's 
your  name  ?  "  A  stare  or  a  guttural  noise:  no 
intelligible  reply.  "  What's — -your — name?" 
Still  silence.  Further  questioning,  then 
.searching,  then  attempting  to  induce  him  to 
write  are  alike  futile  to  discover  his  identity. 
Not  a  word  does  he  utter,  not  a  letter  does 
he  form  on  the  slate.  At  the  asylum  renewed 
efforts  are  made  to  find  out  his  name.  It  is 
all  in  vain.  Who  he  is,  whence  he  comes, 
to  what  circumstances  his  mental  condition 
is  due — these  things  are  mysteries,  and 
mysteries  they  remain  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  He  continues  to  be  a  nameless 
lunatic  as  long  as  life  lasts,  and  ultimately 
descends  to  the  grave  unknown. 

Patients  whose  condition  appears  to  admit 
of  amelioration,  and  who,  while  belonging 
to  a  superior  class  to  that  confined  in  public 
madhouses,  are  yet  unable  to  pay  the  cost 
of  maintenance  in  a  private  asylum,  are 
eligible  for  admission  to  Bethlem  and  St. 
Luke's  Hospitals.  Of  the  two  charities  the 
former  is  the  older  and  more  important, 
and,  if  no  longer  one  of  the  fashionable 
sights  of  London,  is  nevertheless  deeply 



Enter  it,  marking  as  you  cross  its  portals 
the  notice  prohibiting  visitors  from  posting 
patients'  letters  without  showing  them  to 
the  medical  superintendent — a  rule  made, 
of  course,  solely  in  the  interests  of  the 
general  public.  At  once  you  arc  struck  by 
the  blending  of  the  old  and  new.  The 
building  itself,  the  third  Bethlem,  belongs  to 
the  first  decade  of  the  nineteenth  century  ; 
its  fittings  and  appointments  are  only  of 
yesterday.  In  the  board-room,  you  discover 
presently,  there  is  a  collection  of  shields 
bearing  the  names,  crests,  and  mottoes  of 
an  unbroken  line  of  presidents  and  treasurers 

of  the  hospital  extending  far  back  into  the 
sixteenth  century ;  in  the  wards  the  most 
modern  methods  in  the  care  and  treatment 
of  the  insane  can  be  studied.  Ancient  as 
Bethlem  is,  it  is  the  centre  whence  the  latest 
knowledge  pertaining  to  the  medical  aspects 
of  lunacy  are  diffused  all  over  the  world. 

It  is  now  eleven  a.m.  The  wards  are  nearly 
deserted,  most  of  the  inmates  being  in  the 
extensive  grounds  at  the  back.  Let  us  pause 
here  for  a  moment.  Down  below,  spread 
like  a  panorama,  there  is  a  slice  of  the 
gardens,  with  a  maze  of  trees  and  shrubs 
and  flower  beds,  among  which  females   are 





winding  in  the  sun.  Nearer  the  building 
more  are  pacing  to  and  fro  ;  and  over 
there  others  are  resting  on  seats.  With 
these  male  figures  are  mingled — figures  of 
doctors,  who  are  making  their  morning 

A  few  steps,  and  we  gaze  on  a  companion 
picture,  which  includes  men  only.  And  now 
there  is  more  life  and  movement,  and  the 
babble  of  v'oices  and  the  sound  of  joyous 
laughter  rise  on  the  fresh  morning  air. 
Yonder   the    tennis   courts — seven    or   ei<jht 


in  number — with  their  light-hearted  players, 
and  there  the  rackets  courts.  Not  at  all 
like  prisoners  are  those  men.  And,  indeed, 
some  of  them  are  not  such  in  any  sense 
whatever.  Several  could  walk  into  Lambeth 
Road  this  minute,  for  they  are  voluntary 
boarders— patients,  that  is  to  say,  who  have 
come  here  of  their  own  free  will  and  without 
being  certified. 

In  the  background  is  another  remedial 
agent,  which  looks  from  here  like  the 
apparatus  of  a  lark-catching  combine,  but 
which  is  really  an  all-the-year-round  cricket 
ground.  The  pitch  is  of  asphalt  covered  with 
cocoa-nut  matting,  while  the  ball — which  is  an 
ordinary  composition  one — cannot  travel  far 
before  it  is  pulled  up  .short  by  a  net.  Play 
takes  place  on   this   pocket   ground   two  or 

three  times  a  week,  summer  and  winter  alike, 
and  it  has  been  the  scene  of  a  distinct 
novelty  in  English  sports — a  cricket  week 
at  Christmas. 

To  one  ol  the  female  wards  now.  It  is 
a  long,  narrow  apartment,  with  a  bright  and 
cheerful  air  and  a  dominating  note  of  com- 
fort. Some  of  the  female  patients  are 
occupied  with  needlework ;  in  the  middle 
distance  a  young  lady  is  seated  at  one  of 
the  many  excellent  pianos  that  are  scattered 
about  the  building  ;  and  be}-ond  her  another 
female  guest  is  working  and  curing  herself 
simultaneously  by  painting  flowers  on  the 
panels  of  the  door  leading  to  the  adjoining 
ward.  The  pursuit  of  art,  as  well  as  of 
music  and  literature,  is  encouraged  to  the 
utmost.  Neither  here  nor  at  St.  Luke's  is 
it  possible  to  carry  out  the  rule  in  county 
asylums  of  finding  most  patients  bodily  work 
— though  at  the  latter  institution  some  of 
the  inmates  are  employed  at  gardening,  etc. 
— because  the  guests  generally  belong  to 
the  educated  and  professional  classes.  So 
the  policy  followed  at  Bethlem  is  the  culti- 
vation of  music,  painting,  and  literary  com- 
position. This  practice,  unlike  that  in  opera- 
tion in  large  institutions  for  the  insane,  does 
not  effect  a  financial  saving  on  the  one  hand, 
and,  on  the  other,  it  necessarily  affords  no 
physical  exercise.  But  the  other  reasons  for 
which  lunatics  are  employed — occupying  the 
mind  and  restoring  confidence — are  fully 

To  see  the  Bethlem  .system  in  operation 
let  us  take  a  peep  into  a  male  ward  after 
dinner.  Why,  the  place  is  a  regular  academy 
of  fine  arts.  All  the  pianos  are  engaged  ; 
easels  are  scattered  over  the  floor,  with  an 
inmate  working  away  in  front  of  each  ;  and 
here  and  there  a  guest  is  bent  over  a  table, 
pen  in  hand,  and  committing  his  thoughts 
to  paper — writing,  perhaps,  for  the  quarterly 
magazine  of  the  hospital.  Under  the  Dome.  He 
may  be  on  the  staff  of  that  entertaining  little 
periodical,  which  has  its  own  art  critic — 
who,  of  course,  "  does  "  the  picture  exhibitions 
— or  one  of  the  regular  gentlemen  who  attend 
concerts  and  confer  immortality  on  instru- 
mentalists and  vocalists.  Or  he  may  be 
(this  is  a  frightful  drop,  but  no  matter)  only 
an  outside  contributor,  bent  on  submitting 
a  poem  or  an  essay  to  the   editor  in  spite 



of  that  gentleman's  notice  that  he  cannot 
undertake  to  return  rejected  communications. 
Altogether,  the  ward  is  the  very  antithesis  of 
that  conjured  up  by  the  popular  imagination. 

Pass  now  to  the  recreation  room,  noticing 
on  the  way  the  many  pictures  with  which 
the  walls  are  hung.  Some  are  from  the 
brushes  of  inmates,  and  are  consequently 
interesting  apart  from  their  artistic  merit, 
which  in  some  cases  is  considerable.  The 
most  curious  example  is  not  in  the  wards, 
but  near  the  main  staircase.  The  subject 
is  Father  Christmas,  but  Father  Christmas 
as  he  was  never  yet  conceived  by  a  sound 
mind.  Scarcely  recognisable  is  our  old  friend 
in  the  character  presented — as  a  man  of 
sorrows,  with  long-drawn  face  and  tear-laden 

But  to  the  recreation  room.  Night  is  the 
time  to  see  this  delightful  side  of  the  hospital. 
Viewed  from  the  back  when  a  play  is 
presented,  it  is  like  a  West-End 
theatre  on  a  small  scale.  From  the 
orchestra — which  is  occupied  by  a 
band  composed  of  doctors,  attendants, 
and  inmates  under  treatment — come 
the  strains  of  the  overture.  Then 
there  is  a  lull,  broken  only  by  the 
usual  chatter,  which  presently  ceases 
abruptly.  Another  burst  from  the 
orchestra,  the  curtain  which  has  hidden 
the  fine  stage  ascends,  the  characters 
in  the  "  opening  "  are  "  discovered," 
and  then  all  settle  down  with  a 
buzz  of  expectancy.  The  play  has 

Such  is  the  scene  on  one  night. 
On  another  there  is  a  dance,  on  a 
third  a  "  social  "  or  concert,  and  so 
on.  Entertainments  follow  one  an- 
other in  quick  succession.  And 
Bethlem  was  once  a  show  place, 
where  the  morbid  flocked  to  see  its 
inmates  in  chains !  Nowadays  it 
merits  the  name  by  which  it  is 
known  to  many  of  its  guests  — 
Liberty  Hall. 

Grimy,  forbidding  St.  Luke's  is 
essentially  the  twin-sister  of  Bethlem ; 
not  so  comfortable,  perhaps,  not  with 
such  fine  grounds,  but  broadly  a 
replica  of  the  famous  cure  house. 
It  receives  the  same  class  of  patients, 

has  pretty  much  the  same  rules,  and  has  the 
same  system  of  wards. 

Though  it  is  not  seen  at  its  best  and 
brightest  soon  after  lunch  time,  we  will  stroll 
through  it  when  the  inmates  are  indoors, 
resting  after  their  mid-day  meal.  Into  a 
long  room,  windows  overlooking  Old  Street 
on  one  side,  doors  leading  into  sleeping 
chambers  on  the  other.  Silence,  absolute 
silence.  The  taciturnity  of  the  insane, 
coupled  with  their  self-absorption  and  their 
love  of  solitude,  makes  the  patients  seem 
more  like  lay  figures  than  living,  breathing 
men.  Through  one  of  the  windows  a  man 
appears  to  gaze  on  the  kaleidoscopic  bustle 
and  movement  below — appears,  because  his 
eye  is  fixed  as  if  he  saw  nothing  and  his 
face  is  marble  in  its  impassivity.  Near  him 
a  younger  man,  his  gaze  fixed  on  the  ceiling 
with  the  same  stoniness.  To  right  and  left 
men   asleep   or   looking   fixedly   at    nothing 





but  a  chair,  the  legs  of  a  couch,  or  the  floor. 
Over  all  an  air  of  unreality.  With  one 
exception,  the  patients  are  automata.  That 
exception,  the  only  natural  and  life-like 
personality  in  the  room,  sits  at  a  table — 
a  greybeard,  engaged  in  his  favourite  pastime 
of  making  copies,  in  water  colour,  of  pictures 
from  the  illustrated  papers. 

Another  room,  where  the  worst  female 
cases  are  associated.  More  movement  and 
noise  here,  but  not  much.  Yonder  is 
a  group  of  patients,  with  two  attendants 
of  neat,  nurse -like  appearance.  In  one 
corner  a  woman  is  to  be  seen  standing  like 
a  pillar ;  in  another  a  lunatic  is  in  the  atti- 
tude of  prayer — outwardly,  a  rapt  devotee ; 
and  close  by  a  poor  deluded  creature  is 
kneeling  before  a  box  of  paints,  some  of 
which  she  has  been  sucking. 

And  here  is  a  striking  contrast.  While 
a  middle-aged  woman  is  sitting  in  listless 
vacuity,  her  head  drooping,  her  hands  clasped 
in  her  lap,  fit  model  for  Melancholia,  in  the 
middle  of  the  room  there  is  another  striding 
to  and  fro  with  regular  steps  over  a  fixed 

course — so  many  forward,  so  many 
back — muttering  unintelligibly  and 
raising  her  arms  aloft  with  machine- 
like regularity. 

How  truly  painful  it  is  to  study 
the  faces  of  the  patients  in  this  and 
other  rooms !  The  knitted  brow  of 
acute  melancholia,  the  grotesque 
indications  of  delusion  —  here  per- 
plexity, misery,  and  fear,  there 
dignity  and  exaltation  —  the  fixed 
look  of  weariness  indicative  of  the 
reaction  that  follows  acute  mania, 
are  all  present,  with  many  other 
characteristic  expressions.  The  rage 
depicted  on  some  faces  might  make 
a  thoughtful  man  apprehensive. 
What  chance  would  the  attendants 
have  if  a  number  of  the  patients 
banded  together  and  attacked  them? 
Yes,  but  by  a  blessed  dispensation 
of  Providence  lunatics  never  combine; 
they  have  lost  the  faculty  of  com- 

Very  different  from  the  ordinary 
routine  aspect  we  have  seen  is  that 
which  the  hospital  wears  on  St. 
Luke's  Day.  For  then  its  little 
chapel  is  filled  with  inmates  and  officials,  and 
a  sacred  concert  is  given,  as  well  as  an 
address,  which  is  generally  delivered  by  an 
eminent  divine.  Christmas  also  is  a  great 
festival  at  St.  Luke's,  having  for  many  years 
been  celelarated  with  much  seasonable  fare 
and  fun. 

With  these  and  other  red-letter  days, 
frequent  dramatic  and  musical  entertain- 
ments, occasional  dances,  billiards  and  other 
games,  and  ample  reading  facilities,  life  in 
the  hospital  is  not  so  dull  and  monotonous 
as  thousands  who  pass  along  Old  Street  may 
ipiagine.  Everything  possible  is  done  to 
rouse  and  amuse  patients,  and  that  in  this 
the  officials  succeed  is  attested  by  the  high 
percentage  of  cures — a  percentage  which, 
happily,  increases  every  year. 

Another  part  of  Lunatic  London  remains 
to  be  noticed  briefly.  It  is  composed  of  a 
large  number  of  ordinary  dwelling-houses 
interspersed  with  private  asylums,  and 
inhabited  by  the  general  body  of  that  section 
of  the  insane  who  can  afford  to  pay  for  care 
and  treatment.     The  tenants  of  the  common- 



place  residences  are  mostly  doctors,  who 
receive  "  single  patients  " — harmless,  chronic 
•cases,  as  a  rule — for  about  two  guineas  per 
week,  for  the  same  reason  that  "  paying 
guests  "  are  received.  Whether  they  all  give 
adequate  value  for  the  money  is  a  point 
which,  interesting  though  it  may  be,  need 
not  be  entered  into  here. 

The  other  establishments,  which  are 
euphemistically  known  as  "  licensed  houses," 
because   they   are  licensed   annually  by  the 

Commissioners  in  Lunacy,  who  have  power 
to  grant,  renew,  or  withhold  such  licences 
in  their  absolute  discretion,  vary  as  much 
in  comfort  and  charges  as  in  size.  Some 
have  all  the  appointments  of  a  good  private 
house,  and  a  patient  may,  if  he  or  his 
friends  choose  to  pay  accordingly,  have 
his  own  private  suite  of  rooms  and  his 
own  special  attendant.  And  no  doubt  these 
proprietary  asylums  are,  as  a  whole,  well 






MOST  of  us  have  country  cousins.  Some- 
times they  come  to  town.  When  they 
come  in  a  family  party  they  have,  as  a 
rule,  a  definite  programme,  and  can  be  relied 
upon  to  "  do "  many  of  the  sights  of  the 
Metropolis  without  your  personal  guidance. 
But  the  male  country  cousin  occasionally 
comes  alone — comes  for  a  day — "  runs  up  to 
London,"  having  previously  sent  you  a 
letter  to  say  that  he  shall  take  it  kindly  if 
you  will  meet  him  and  show  him  round. 

In  my  mind's  eye  I  have  a  typical  country 
cousin.  He  is  of  frugal  mind  and  not  given 
to  jauntings.  But  there  is  an  excursion 
from  the  Lancashire  town  in  which  he 
lives — one  of  the  so-called  pleasure  trips 
which  take  you  from  your  home  in  the 
dead  of  night  and  deposit  you  in  London 
shortly  after  breakfast  time,  giving  you  a 
long  day  in  the  capital,  and  picking  you 
up  again  on  platform  I2  about  midnight  for 
reconveyance  to  the  town  in  which  you  have 
a  vote  and  a  bed. 

It  is  a  country  cousin  of  that  kind  I  am 
waiting    for    this    autumn    morning    at    St. 

Pancras.  Punctually  at  nine  o'clock  the 
long  "  excursion "  by  which  he  is  travelling 
steams  into  the  station.  I  grasp  his  hand, 
hurry  him  into  a  hansom,  take  him  to  my 
house,  where  he  "  smartens  himself  up  "  and 
has  a  hasty  breakfast ;  and  then  we  sally  forth 
to  put  an  amount  of  hard  work  into  the  four- 
teen hours'  holiday  that  lie  before  us  that 
would  justify  the  charge  of  "  slave-driving " 
against  any  employer  who  compelled  us  to  do 
it  for  money. 

First,  because  I  live  in  Regent's  Park,  near 
Baker  Street,  I  take  my  country  cousin  to 
the  famous  waxworks  of  Madame  Tuisaud. 

At  the  great  waxwork  show,  after  we  have 
made  the  acquaintance  of  kings  and  emperors, 
rulers  and  statesmen,  literary  and  historic  and 
scientific  celebrities,  and  that  great  gallery  of 
criminal  notorieties  who  remain  permanently 
underground,  I  have  the  good  fortune  to  meet 
Mr.  John  Tussaud,  the  modeller  to  the 
world-famed  exhibition.  Here  is  a  chance 
of  taking  my  companion  behind  the 
scenes,  and  showing  him  something  that 
the  ordinary  visitor  would  never  see. 



Following  Mr.  Tussaud  into  his  atelier,  we 
find  several  celebrities  rapidly  approaching 
completion.  The  figures  have  been  built  up, 
the  features  have  been  modelled — in  many 
instances  from  sittings  given  by  the  originals 
— and  now  they  are  ready  to  have  their  hair 
on  and  their  eyes  put  in. 

In  the  wig  department  there  is  a  stock  of 
every  shade  of  hair.  Directly  the  correct 
nuance  has  been  ascertained,  the  hitherto 
bald  head  is  carefully  covered.  The  parting 
is  scientifically  made,  and  the  curling  or 
waving,  if  any,  is  performed  by  an  experi- 
enced coiffeur.  Mr.  Tussaud,  as  we  enter 
his  atelier,  points  to  a  reigning  sovereign 
whose  hair  is 
at  present 
much  in  the 
condition  it 
would  be 
afte  r  his 

"We  can't 
do  his  hair 
yet,"  says  the 
artist,  "  be- 
cause  we 
don't  know 
whether  he 
parts  it  in 
the  middle 
or  at  the 

At  that 
moment  the 
assistant  enters  with  a  telegram  in  his  hand. 

"  The    Emperor  of  parts  his  hair  at 

the  side,  sir,"  he  says,  holding  up  the  opened 
"  wire." 

Tussaud's  have  telegraphed  to  the  Court 
Chamberlain  asking  for  the  information,  and 
thus  the  parting  of  his  Imperial  Majesty's 
hair  has  been  settled  beyond  dispute. 

We  notice  that  another  figure,  that  of  a 
woman  who  has  just  been  tried  and  found 
guilty  at  the  Old  Bailey  of  poisoning  her 
husband,  is  without  eyes.  The  sockets  are 
empty.  Presently  the  eye  specialist  enters,  in 
a  blouse  such  as  sculptors  wear  at  their  work. 
In  his  hand  is  a  box  containing  eyes  of  all 
possible  colours.  Pinned  to  the  figure  is  a 
memorandum  on  which  are  all  the  details 

TH'E   artists'   room,   PAGAKI'S 

of  identification  that  u.sed  to  be  given  on 
certain  foreign  passports.  The  eyes,  accord- 
ing to  this  memorandum,  are  light  blue.  The . 
specialist  picks  out  a  couple  of  eyes,  and  Mr. 
Tussaud  steps  back  and  criticises  the  effect. 
"  Too  dark,"  he  says  ;  "  try  a  lighter  pair." 
The  eyes  are  removed,  and  a  fresh  pair 
tried.  This  time  the  effect  is  considered 
satisfactor}'.  The  eyes  are  passed.  P^or 
years  to  come  the  visitors  to  Tussaud's  will 
gaze  into  them,  and  perhaps  wonder  how  a 
woman  with  such  gentle  eyes  could  have 
been  guilty  of  so  cruel  a  crime. 

We  should  like  to  stay  longer  at  Tussaud's, 
for  my  country  cousin  is  intensely  interested 

in  this  pri- 
vate view, 
but  time  is 
on  the  wing, 
and  so  must 
we  be. 

We  hurry 
off  to  the 
Baker  Street 
station  of  the 
tan Railway, 
jump  into  a 
train  just  as 
it  is  starting, 
the  doors  are 
closed  one 
after  the 
other  by  an 
porter,  and 
we  plunge  into  the  dark  tunnel  with  "Bang! 
bang!!  bang!!!"  ringing  in  our  ears.  In 
a  short  time  we  alight  at  Mark  Lane,  and 
steering  our  way  through  the  busy  throng.s 
of  business  men  and  workers  we  enter  the 
charmed  precincts  of  the  Tower. 

Every  country  visitor  looks  upon  the 
Tower  as  one  of  the  sights  of  London  that 
must  on  no  account  be  missed,  though  there 
are  thousands  of  Londoners  living  within 
a  mile  or  two  of  it  who  have  never  entered 
it.  In  "  Living  London "  it  has  a  special 
article  to  itself 

After  an  hour  at  the  Tower  we  make 
our  way  out,  and  joining  the  great  stream 
of  dull  drab  humanity  hurry  to  Cheapside  ; 
where,  to  show  my  friend  a   phase  of  City 



life,  I  take  him  into  Pimm's,  and  let  him 
elbow  bankers  and  stockjobbers  and  City 
merchants  and  clerks  at  the  famous  luncheon 
counter.  Here  he  eats  with  appetite  a  mag- 
nificent slice  of  game  pie,  and  when  he  has 
drained  the  foaming  goblet  of  ebony  stout 
asks  for  another,  and  fills  me  with  envy  of 
his  digestive  powers.  He  would  have  taken 
his  time,  amid  the  rush  of  hasty  snacksmen, 
but  I  have  to  tear  him  awa}-,  for  the  items 
on  the  programme  are  not  few,  though  far 

We  now  make  our  way  towards  the  great 
amusement  centre,  and  find  there  an  em- 
barrassment of  riches.  We  are  in  good 
time  for  the  afternoon  performance  at  the 
Hippodrome,  and  it  takes  the  fancy  of 
my  country  cousin  at  once.  I  have  to  im- 
press upon  him  the  fact  that  unless  we  hurry 
we  may  fail  to  get  a  seat.  The  magnificent 
Roman  chariot  with  the  prancing  steeds  that 
crowns  the  edifice  has  caught  his  eye,  and 
he  is  gazing  aloft  at  it  with  open-mouthed 
astonishment,  in  the  manner  of  a  rural  popu- 
lation paralysed  by  the  unexpected  appear- 
ance of  a  balloon  in  the  skies  above. 

When  at  last  I  get  him  comfortabl}'  seated 
in  a  spacious  fauteuil,  he  continues  to  gaze 
around  him  at  the  appointments  of  the 
building.  The  decorations  attract  him  first, 
then  the  packed  audience  in  the  upper 
portion  of  the  house.  But  when  the  splen- 
did orchestra  finishes  the  overture  with  a 
crash  of  melodious  sound,  and  a  bevy  of 
charming  young  ladies,  attired  as  courtiers 
of  the  days  of  Historical  Romance,  line  up, 
and  form  an  avenue  of  beauty  through  which 
the  performers  concerned  in  the  first  item  on 
the  programme  enter,  my  visitor  settles  him- 
self in  his  seat  for  a  couple  of  hours'  enjoyment. 

He  is  delighted  with  the  ring  "  turns,"  and 
the  "turns"  on  the  stage,  but  the  climax  of 
his  excitement  is  reached  when  the  entire 
arena  is  transformed  before  the  eyes  of  the 
audience.  The  rolling  up  and  wheeling  away 
of  the  great  carpet  positively  thrill  him. 
When,  as  if  by  clockwork,  an  army  of  as- 
sistants obey  the  whistle  of  the  ubiquitous 
stage  manager,  and  a  fairy  scene  is  built 
up  by  a  .series  of  "  Hey  Presto's,"  he  is  doubly 

When  I  tell  him  that  sometimes,  when  a 
water  carnival  is  the  close  of  the  entertain- 

ment, the  whole  floor  of  the  arena  sinks  down 
several  feet,  and  the  space  is  rapidly  filled  by 
a  small  ocean  of  fresh  warm  water,  he  says, 
"  I  have  heard  about  it.  Some  friends  of 
mine  at  home  came  here  and  saw  the 
plunging  elephants.  They  talked  about  it 
for  a  month  afterwards." 

After  the  wonders  of  the  Hippodrome  have 
come  to  an  end,  and  we  are  in  the  street,  I 
suggest  that  we  shall  have  some  tea,  and 
then  go  to  the  Coliseum.  We  make  our 
way  to  Piccadilly,  pass  through  a  crowcl^ 
largely  composed  of  ladies,  coming  away 
from  a  matinee  at  St.  James's  Theatre,  take 
our  tea  at  the  Popular  Cafe,  of  which  he  has 
heard  and  read  a  great  deal,  and  then — I  had 
anticipated  this  item  of  the  programme,  and 
secured  seats  earlier  in  the  day — we  join  the 
eager  crowds  that  are  pressing  towards  the 
colossal  building  in  St.   Martin's  Lane. 

Again  my  country  cousin  gazes  spellbound 
at  the  beauty  of  the  appointments  and  the 
palatial  magnificence  of  the  house  of  enter- 
ment,  at  which  you  can  secure  an  advanced 
and  numbered  seat  for  sixpence.  The  per- 
formance is  beginning  as  we  take  our  seats. 

The  song  scenas  my  cousin  thinks  delight- 
ful, and  he  is  greatly  attracted  by  the  white- 
garbed  chorus  sitting  on  either  side  of  the 
proscenium.  When  he  gets  a  scena  from  a 
grand  opera,  sung  by  grand  opera  favourites, 
he  is  silent.  He  has  temporarily  exhausted 
his  vocabulary  of  admiration.  But  he  re- 
covers his  power  of  speech  presently,  and 
remarks  that  it  is  the  most  marvellous  show 
he  ever  saw  in  his  life. 

I  tell  him  that  this  vast  building  is  packed 
four  times  a  day,  and  he  accepts  my  state- 
ment, but  wonders  where  so  many  people 
with  nothing  to  do  but  amuse  themselves 
can  come  from.  I  assure  him  that,  vast  as 
the  population  of  the  capital  is,  that  is  a 
question  which  Londoners  very  frequently 
ask  themselves. 

The  big  "  sea  piece  "  of  the  show,  with  the 
moving  panorama,  and  the  stage  that  seems 
a  live  thing  performing  miracles  on  its  own 
account,  brings  mj'  country  cousin's  en- 
thusiasm to  a  climax,  and  as  we  pass  out 
with  the  mighty  crowd  into  the  street,  with- 
out the  slightest  confusion  or  difificulty,  he 
grasps  my  arm  and  says,  "It  was  worth 
coming   to    London   only   to   see   this.      By 





Jove,  I'm  not  sure  I  wouldn't  like  to  go 
back  again  and  see  the  next  show — the  one 
from  9  to  ii.  It's  all  different,  isn't  it?" 
"  Yes,"  I  reply,  "  every  item  is  different. 
There's  a  double  company.  One  company 
plays  from  12  to  2  and  6  to  8,  and  the  other 
from  3  to  5  and  9  to  11."  "Four  shows  a 
day,"  he  murmurs.  "  Well,  it's  wonderful.  I 
suppose  presently  you  Londoners  will  want  a 
show  that  never  leaves  off  at  all !  " 

It  is  now  eight  o'clock,  and  in  our  hunger 
for  amusement  we  have  forgotten  all  about 
dinner,  so  I  venture  to  suggest  that  we 
might  find  a  place  in  the  programme  for  a 
form  of  entertainment  which,  if  not  exciting, 
is  always  agreeable.  My  country  cousin 
confesses  that  an  idea  of  refreshment  a  little 
more  elaborate  than  a  cup  of  tea  has  been 
passing  through  his  mind.  So  I  take  him  to 
Pagani's,  because  I  want  to  show  him  some- 
thing that  everybody  who  dines  at  a  restaurant 
does  not  see. 

By  the  courtesy  of  Signor  Meschini,  one  of 
the  proprietors,  the  world-famous  little 
"  artists'  room "  is  reserved  for  us,  and 
there  we  dine  a  deux: 

A  wonderful  room  this,  and  renowned  over 
Europe  ;  for  here  the  most  artistic  of  London's 
visitors  and  London's  celebrities  have  written 
their  names  on  the  wall 
Here  in  lead  pencil  are 
autographs  that  the  col- 
lector  would  give   gold 
for.     Here  are  drawings 

made  on  the  spot  at  the  hour  of  coffee  and 
cigars.  The  Italian  prima  donna,  the  world- 
famous  pianist,  the  fashionable  artist,  the  great 
humourist,  the  queen  of  tragedy,  the  king 
of  comedy,  have  all  contributed  to  the  wall  of 
celebrities.  One  day  not  long  since  a  new 
waiter,  eager  to  show  his  usefulness,  began  to 
scrub  out  what  he  called  "  the  scribbling  on 
the  wall."  Messrs.  Pagani  have  in  conse- 
quence protected  the  signatures  of  their  world- 
famed  patrons  with  thick  sheets  of  glass. 
These  have  been  obligingly  removed  for  our 

From  Pagani's  soon  after  eight  o'clock  we 
set  out  on  foot.  We  pass  down  Regent 
Street,  where,  thanks  to  the  sensible  habit  of 
some  of  the  tradespeople  of  leaving  the  shutters 
down  and  the  shops  lighted  up,  the  gloom  of 
the  desert  no  longer  prevails  after  closing 
hours  ;  and  so  across  Piccadilly  Circus,  gay 
with  illuminated  devices,  into  the  ever 
gorgeous  Leicester  Square. 

First  I  take  my  friend  into  the  Alhambra. 
Here  we  see  one  of  the  poetic  and  beautifully 
draped  ballets  for  which  the  house  is  famous, 
and  my  friend,  who  has  music  in  his  soul, 
is  loud  in  his  praise  of  the  magnificent 

There  is  many  a  tempting  item  upon  the 
programme,  but  the 
hours  are  hastening  on. 
Leaving  by  the  Leicester 
Square  exit,  we  stroll 
across   to    the    brightly 





glittering  brasserie  of  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe, 
where  at  comfortable  tables,  amid  jewelled 
lights,  one  can  drink  the  long  glass  of  lager 
in  the  most  approved  Continental  manner, 
and  listen  to  the  strains  of  an  admirable 

Here  are  the  citizens  dark  and  fair  of  many 
capitals,  little  family  parties,  husbands  and 
wives,  lovers  and  their  lasses,  folk  from  the 
country  slightly  overawed  by  the  surrounding 
splendour,  and  young  Londoners  complacently 
accepting  the  new  advance  towards  the 
comfort  and  roominess  of  the  Continental 
bier  halle  and  cafe.  My  country  cousin 
would  gladly  linger  over  his  lager.  But  the 
hour  of  the  Biograph  is  approaching  at 
the  Palace,  and  thither  we  wend  our  way. 

The  Palace  is  peculiar  among  the  great 
theatres  of  variety.  It  has  no  promenade, 
and  its  stall  audiences  are  frequently  as 
fashionable  as  that  of  the  opera,  with  here  and 
there  a  tourist  not  in  evening  dress,  who 
only  heightens  the  effect  of  the  surrounding 

The  Biograph  is  the  distinguishing  feature 
of  the  Palace.  It  followed  the  living  pictures, 
and  has  not  disappeared  ;  it  looks  like 
becoming  a  permanent  feature  of  the  pro- 
gramme.    There  are  a    truthfulness    and    a 

reality  about  the  Palace  pictures.  They  are 
always  original,  up  to  date.  You  can  see  the 
Derby  run  over  again  on  the  evening  of  the 
race  ;  a  Royal  reception  repeated  within  a  few 
hours  of  its  happening.  The  journey  on  a 
railway  engine  through  Swiss  valleys  or 
Canadian  snows  gives  one  the  feeling  of 
travelling.  When  my  friend  has  travelled 
by  the  express  train  of  the  Palace  Biograph 
over  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  finds  himself 
as  the  lights  go  up  still  sitting  in  his  stall, 
he  jumps  up  and  exclaims,  "  Do  we  get  out 
here  ?  " 

I  reply  in  the  affirmative,  for  still  before  us 
lies  another  palace  of  pleasure,  the  famous 
Empire.  At  the  Empire  we  stroll  about, 
for  I  want  the  man  from  the  North  to  see 
something  of  Living  London  as  it  takes 
its  evening   pleasure   in    grand  array. 

To  point  out  to  him  the  famous  men  about 
town,  the  great  financiers,  the  eminent  counsel, 
the  "club  men,"  the  racing  men,  and  the 
literary  and  artistic  celebrities  who  promenade 
in  the  grand  lounge  and  chatter  in  the  famous 
foyer,  amid  the  rustle  of  silks  and  the  flashing 
of  diamonds,  is  exhausting,  so  I  suggest 
that  we  should  take  two  seats,  for  which 
we  have  already  paid,  and  see  the  perform- 
ance. We  are  in  time  for  the  finish  of  the 
grand   ballet.      All   that   lavish    outlay   and 

3  so 


artistic  taste  can  accomplish  in  the  matter 
of  adorning  the  female  form  divine  is  accom- 
plished at  the  Empire.  Nowhere  in  the 
world  is  the  grand  finale  of  a  ballet  presented 
with  more  costly  and  at  the  same  time 
refined  magnificence.  The  three  great  variety 
theatres  of  London — the  Alhambra,the  Palace, 
and  the  Empire — are  unique  ;  no  other  capital 
has  anything  like  them.  As  a  consequence, 
and  also  to  a  certain  extent  because  the  enter- 
tainment does  not  demand  a  great  knowledge 
of  the  language,  they  always  include  among 
their  audience  a  very  large  proportion  of 
foreign  as  well  as  provincial  visitors. 

Soon  after  eleven  the  audience  in  mostplaces 
of  entertainment  in  London  begins  to  make 
a  decided  move.  At  the  variety  theatres  the 
stalls  for  some  reason  empty  first,  although 
one  would  have  thought  that  the  train  and 
tram  and  'bus  catchers  to  the  suburbs  would 
have  been  the  earliest  to  go. 

Byt  at  ten  minutes  past  eleven  the  house 
empties  rapidly  from  all  parts,  and  by  half- 
past  eleven  most  of  the  lights  of  the  theatres 
and  halls  in  the  West-End  of  London  have 
paled  their  highly  effectual  fires. 

At  a  quarter  past  eleven,  having  given  my 
country  cousin  a  hurried  peep  into  one 
of  the  bars  found  near  Piccadilly  Circus, 
and  allowed  him  to  feast  his  eyes  upon 
the  tempting  display  of  lobsters  and  crabs 
in   the   famous    front    windows    of   Scott's,  I 

assure  him  it  is  time  to  take  a  hansom. 
But  we  are  outside  the  entrance  to  the 
Cafe  Royal,  and  he  suggests  that,  as  he  has 
a  long  journey  before  him,  he  shall  be 
allowed  to  take  his  final  refreshment  .seated 
comfortably  on  a  luxurious  lounge  at  this,  one 
of  the  oldest  and  also  one  of  the  best-known 
cafe  restaurants  of  London. 

And  so  it  is  twenty  minutes  to  twelve 
when  at  last  I  succeed  in  putting  him  into 
a  hansom,  which  bears  us  swiftly  to  St.  Pancras, 
where  we  find  platform  number  12  rapidly 
filling  with  the  excursionists  who  have  had 
a  day  in  London,  and  are  now  going  to  have 
a  night  on  the  railway. 

The  clock  points  to  ten  minutes  past 
midnight,  the  porters  begin  to  shut  doors, 
the  rear  guard  waves  the  green  lantern,  and 
with  a  hearty  "  Good-bye  "  my  country  cousin 
is  whirled  away  into  the    darkness. 

And,  having  seen  more  of  the  amusements 
of  London  in  one  day  than  I  generally  see  in 
six  months,  I  go  home  to  bed,  and  dream 
that  all  the  shows  of  London  are  performing 
round  me,  and  that  I  am  vainly  endeavour- 
ing to  fight  my  way  through  the  crowd  of 
wild  performers  and  seek  refuge  in  a  hermit's 
cell  beside  a  silent  pool. 

A  country  cousin  can  accomplish  an  amount 
of  sight-seeing  in  twelve  hours  without  fatigue 
which  would  leave  the  ordinary  Londoner  a 
hopeless  wreck. 

'  GOOD-BYE.' 


IN       A      REGISTRY       OFFICE  :       SERVANTS      SEEKING 




^HERE  are 
no    s  e  r- 
vants    to 
be  had  ! " 

The  cry  begins 
with  the  mis- 
tresses, it  is 
taken  up  by  the 
registry  offices,  it 
is  repeated  in  the 
Press.  Yet  in 
London  alone  we 
have  a  great 
army  of  servants, 
who  spend  their 
lives  waiting 
upon  a  still 
larger  army  of  their  fellow  men  and  upon 
each  other. 

There  are  always  servants  for  the  rich. 
Money  will  buy  service,  if  it  will  not  buy 
faithfulness  ;  it  will  buy  plausibility,  if  it  can- 
not secure  honesty.  In  the  humbler  house- 
hold, where  the  servant  is  truly  one  of  the 
family,  character  becomes  a  matter  of  the 
utmost  importance  ;  and  amid  this  great  army 
the   friendly,  faithful  domestic  is   still  to  be 


found.  Servant  London  is  an  integral  part  of 
all  London  life,  and  the  class  which  employs 
no  servants  most  often  supplies  them.  So 
huge  is  the  panorama  now  unfolded,  that  only 
a  few  of  its  scenes  can  be  given,  only  a  few 
of  its  figures  can  be  sketched  in 

When  the  great  city  wakes,  the  servants 
wake  with  it.  Peep  through  the  grey  and 
windows  of 
West  m  i  n  s  ter 
Hospital.  In 
the  servants' 
quarters  the 
drowsy  ward- 
maids  and 
kitchen  staff  are 
dressing.  It  is 
only  half- past 
five,  and  a  raw 
winter  morning; 
yet  within  an 
hour  the  great 
building  will  be 
cleaned  down 
from  top  to 
bottom,  and  the  housemaid. 



their    day's    work : 

long  procession  of 
meals  will  have  begun. 
No  chattering  over 
work,  no  exchange  of 
amenities  at  the  area 
steps;  housemaid, 
ward  maid,  kitchen- 
maid,  cook  —  all  are 
subject  to  rigid  dis- 

Eastward  the  sun  is 
rising,  and  the  river 
glows  a  fitful  red ; 
eastward  still,  past  the 
Tower,  where  the 
ofificials'  households 
are  waking  and  the 
soldier  servants  begin 
east,  and  further  east  to  the  furthest  edge  of 
the  city,  where  Greater  London  is  now  wide 
awake.  Follow  the  river  till  you  reach  a 
desolate  region  lying  below  high-water  mark, 
not  very  far  from  the  Victoria  Docks — a 
region  where  still  the  pools  on  the  waste  land 
are  salt  when  the  tide  is  high,  and  where 
thousands  of  grey-faced  houses,  built  squat 
upon  the  reeking  earth,  lean  towards  each 
other  for  mutual  support. 
This  is  the  servantless  land. 
These  endless  rows  of  expressionless  grey 
houses,  with  their  specious  air  of  comfort  and 
gentility,  their  bay  window  and  antimacassar- 
covered   table,  are  tenanted  by  two,  it  may 

even  be  by 
three,  fami- 
lies housed 
in  the  four 
r  o  o  m  s  . 
These  are 
the  people 
who  "do 
for  them- 
selves." And 
here  many  of 
our  servants 
get  such 
guidance  in 
as  serves 
them  for  a 
Here  are 
CLUB  PAGE.  born    and 


bred  the  sisters  of  the 
little  "  Marchioness," 
true  "  slaveys  "  in  all 
but  spirit,  who  recount 
the  last  battle  with 
the  "  missus "  with 
that  dramatic  instinct 
which  never  fails  the 
child  of  the  street. 
"  And  I  give  'er  as 
good  as  'er  give  me, 
I  did ;  and  well  she 
knows  I  won't  stand 
'er  lip !  " 

Louisarann  is  fortu- 
nate; she  left  school  in 
the  seventh  standard 
(says  her  mother  proudly),  and  now  the 
"  Mabys  Ladies  "  (Metropolitan  Association 
for  Befriending  Young  Servants)  have  been 
able  to  find  her  "  a  place — ^8  a  year  all 
found,  and  no  washin'."  Lucky  girl !  Alice 
Mary,  her  sister,  left  school  as  ignorant  as  she 
entered  it,  but  she  too  has  found  work.  She 
has  gone  as  " '  general '  to  the  public-house 
round  the  corner — father  bein'  an  old  cus- 
tomer, and  the  '  Pig  and  Whistle '  mos' 
respectable."  She  minds  the  "  biby  "  during 
the  day,  and  perhaps  takes  a  turn  at  "  mindin' 
the  bar"  during  the  evenings. 

Let  us  follow  Louisarann  to  her  first  place. 
A  lodging-house  is  "  genteel,"  but  life  there 
is  not  very  amusing.  It  is  about  six  when, 
on  a  winter  morning,  a  small 
object,  she 
creeps  out 
of her  dingy 
pallet  bed  at 
the  back  of 
the  under- 
g  round 
which  is 
her  home. 
A  grated 
shows  the 
filthy  pave- 
ment, the 
yellow  fog, 
and  the 
boots  of  the 





Hastily  gathering  her  meagre  wardrobe  from 
the  bed  where  she  has  piled  it  for  warmth, 
she  dresses  herself,  gives  her  face  a  shudder- 
ing smudge  of  ice-cold  water,  and  draws  on 
a  pair  of  old  gloves  given  to  her  by  "  one 
of  the  gents  upstairs,"  to  keep  the  soot  out 
of  her  broken  chilblains  while  she  cleans 
her  flues.  Poor  Louisarann  is  neither  quick 
nor  skilful,  and  she  gets  blacker  and  blacker 
as  she  works 

She  has  only  time  to  wipe  off  a  few  of  the 
worst  smuts  before  she  is  carrying  hot  water 

when  she  has  a  chance,  and  she  gives  an 
extra  "  shine  "  to  the  "  drorin'-room  gent's." 
He  is  a  "  real  swell,  and  mos'  considerut,  the 
dinin'-room  bein'  a  commercial  gent,"  good- 
natured,  but  stingy  as  to  tips.  The  gents  are 
all  right,  "  but  it's  the  top  floor  widdy  and  me 
as  falls  out!" 

To  be  rung  up  three  pair  of  stairs  just  to 
be  sent  all  the  way  down  and  up  again  for 
"  an  extry  knife,  as  though  hanyone  couldn't 
wipe  the  bacon  fat  off  on  a  bit  o'  bread,  is  one 
of  the  widdy's  narsty  ways."     Louisarann  has 

IN   A    servants'    HAI.L  :     AT    DINNER. 

up  to  the  top  of  the  house.  Down  she 
clatters,  and  snatching  her  brushes  climbs  up 
again  to  do  the  grates  in  the  three  sitting- 
rooms  ;  then  up  and  down  she  toils,  carrying 
coal  and  removing  ashes.  Her  mistress,  half 
awake  and  proportionately  cross,  comes  into 
the  now  warm  kitchen  to  make  herself  a  cup 
of  tea  and  get  the  breakfast  for  husband  and 
household.  Upstairs  Louisarann  removes  the 
dirty  glasses  and  cigarette  ends,  gives  a  hasty 
"  sweep  up,"  and  then,  amid  the  appetising 
smell  of  frizzling  bacon,  toils  again  up  and 
down  stairs,  staggering  under  the  heavy 
breakfast  trays.  While  all  the  hungry  souls 
but  herself  are  breakfasting,  she  cleans  the 
rows  of  boots. 

She  likes  to  do   things  well 

to  snatch  her  breakfast — as  she  does  all  her 
meals — standing. 

But  the  girl  has  pluck ;  she  refrains  from 
"  langwidge,"  when  "  missus  "  is  worse  than 
usual,  being  determined  to  stay  long  enough 
to  get  a  character.  Behind  all  is  the  great 
consolation  —  the  day  out !  To-day  she 
makes  her  way  through  the  thick  and  filthy 
fog  to  a  great  house  in  Berkeley  Square, 
where  her  cousin  Jane  is  housemaid,  "  second 
of  four."  Carefully  the  "  slavey  "  feels  her 
way  down  the  area  steps,  and  is  admitted. 

Jane  is  a  little  ashamed  of  her  cousin's 
shabby  appearance,  so  she  takes  Louisarann 
upstairs  and  "  tidies  her  up  a  bit."  The 
"  slavey "   looks   round    the   neat   room,  and 



thinks  of  her  bed  in  the  back  kitchen,  and 
then  and  there  makes  up  her  mind  to  "  better 
herself,  for  she  wouldn't  stay  no  longer,  not  if 
she  was  rose  every  month,  she  wouldn't." 
And  Jane,  sympathising,  offers  to  step  round 
with  her  to  the  registry  office,  if  she  can  get 
off  b)--and-by,  and  speak  for  her.  As  they 
go  downstairs,  the  "  slavey  "  sees  a  young  lady 
sitting  by  a  fire  in  a  pretty  room,  sewing, 
while  a  housemaid  "  takes  up  the  bits."  Jane 
gives  an  expressive  shrug,  but  as  the  lady 
looks  up  saj's  sweetly,  "  Good  morning, 
mademoiselle."  Jane  wants  to  buy  her  next 
best  dress  from  her  ladyship's  maid,  who  has 
all  the  "  wardrobe,"  and  who  knows  how  to 
put  on  the  price 
if  one  is  not  over 
civil.  Allda\-long 
the  panorama  of 
life  below  stairs 
unfolds  itself  be- 
fore Louisarann's 
astonished  gaze  ; 
and  she  reads 
with  awe  the 
printed    rules 

ably,  and  in  some  great  state  is  observed. 
Then  the  upper  servants,  among  whom  the 
groom  of  the  chambers  is  numbered,  do  not 
take  their  meals  with  the  "  hall "  servants. 
They  are  served  in  the  steward's  room,  and 
sup  per 
at  nine 
o'clock  is 
dinner  in 
m  i  n  i  a  - 
ture.  Each 
c  o  u  r  s  e 
which  ap- 
pears    up- 


the  work 
of  the  huge 
dinner  the 
takes  the 
head,  the 
cook    the 

foot  of  the  table  ;  men  sit  one  side,  women 
the  other.  As  the  meat  is  cleared  away,  the 
butler  and  cook,  lady's  maid  and  valet,  rise 
and  sweep  from  the  .servants'  hall.  They 
have  gone  to  the  housekeeper's  room  for 
dessert  and  their  after-dinner  chat.  The 
distinction  between "  room "  servants  and 
"hall"  servants  is  rigidly  maintained. 

Customs  in  the  big  houses  vary  consider- 


stairs  is  re- 
peated below 
for  the  "room" 
servants,  even 
to  the  "second" 
ices,  prepared 
by  the  still- 
room  maids, 
and  dessert  of 
every  kind.  A 
glass  of  claret 
replaces  the  homely  beer — occasionally  some- 
thing costlier  than  claret.  The  ladies  are 
in  demi-toilette,  with  evening  blouses,  and 
not  seldom  with  gloves  and  fan  ;  on  great 
occasions  the  lady's  maid  appears  in  full 
dress,  with  ornaments  and  even  jewels,  a 
complete  copy  of  her  ladyship.  Precedence 
is  strictly  observed,  and  the  servants  sit 
according  to  their  masters'  rank.  The  valets 
and  ladies'  maids  staying  in  the  house  join 
the  party  in  the  steward's  room.  When 
there  are  a  number  coming  and  going,  the 
presiding  butler  and  housekeeper  do  not 
trouble  about  the  individual  names,  but  use 
those  of  the  master  for  convenience.  Thus 
the  inquiry  may  be  heard,  "  What  can  I 
pass  your  ladyship  ?  "  "  Duke,  what  will  you 
take  ?  " 

Where  do  these  servants  all  come  from — 



who  supplies  them  ?  There  are  formal  and 
informal  registry  offices.  One  coachman 
carries  the  news  of  Jones  leaving  to  another  ; 
there  are  inquiries  at  the  china  shop,  or  the 
mistress  "just  mentions  it"  to  her  butcher,  a 
most  respectable  man,  who  has  served  her 
since  her  marriage.  There  are  also  Servants' 
Homes,  to  each  of  which  a  registry  is  at- 
tached, and  which  may  be  termed,  in  fact, 
if  not  in  name, 
Protection  So- 
cieties, as  the 
officials  fight  the 
servants'  battles 
for  them,  recover- 
ing wages  due 
and  giving  them 
that  "  character  " 
without  which 
they  can  never 
get  a  respectable 
situation.  The 
difficulties  of 
securing  true 
characters  are 
enormous  — 
about  one  -  half 
the  mistresses  are 
employed  in  ob- 
taining servants' 
characters  from 
the  other  half — 
and  when  ob- 
tained they  are 
not  always  to  be 
relied  upon,  for 
a  mistress  "  does 
not  like  to  have 

The  law  of  master  and  servant  also  is  suf- 
ficiently rigid,  and  prevents  a  mistress  from 
recording  suspicions  which  she  is  not  able  to 

Certain  registry  offices  (especially  the  larger 
ones  in  the  West  End)  have  a  black  list, 
which  is  always  kept  carefully  posted  up  and 
which  records  the  history  of  the  black  sheep, 
male  and  female.  Even  as  there  is  a  trade 
in  the  writing  of  begging  letters,  so  there  is 
one  in  the  manufacturing  of  servants'  char- 
acters, and  such  a  calling  will  prosper,  in 
spite  of  all  risks  of  detection  and  punish- 
ment,   so    long    as    a    written    character    is 


deemed  sufficient.  What  can  there  be  to 
prevent  the  accomplice  from  impersonating 
the  complaisant  mistress  who  is  losing  a 
"  treasure  "  ?  The  Associated  Guild  of  Regis- 
tries does  much  to  separate  the  sheep  from 
the  goats,  but  it  cannot  prevent  the  risk  to 
servants  who  answer  specious  advertisements 
There  are  "  situations,"  with  "  good  wages 
for  suitable  young   women,"   which   are  not 

"  places  "  within 
the  accepted 
meaning  of  the 
word,  and  if  the 
lights  in  Servant 
London  are 
bright  the 
shadows  are 
black   indeed. 

A  much-dressed 
lady  is  deep  in 
conversation  with 
the  head  of  the 
registry  office. 
She  is  the  wife 
of  a  rich  trades- 
man at  Clapham. 
She  keeps  a 
cook  -  general, 
maid, and  nurse. 
They  are  all  very 
trim  and  neat, 
and  the  house- 
wears  the  latest 
thing  in  cap 
streamers.  The 
nurse's  white 
dress  in  summer 
and  her  grey  uniform  in  winter  mark  her 
separation  from  the  common  nurse  in 
coloured  clothes.  These  servants  have  good 
places,  and  they  know  it,  although  the  rule 
of  "  No  followers  allowed  "  is  strictly  adhered 
to.  They  serve  their  mistress  fairly,  though 
they  do  not  care  about  her.  The  children 
are  the  bond  between  them  ;  and  "  cook  "  is 
always  sure  of  a  kiss  if  she  asks  for  one,  for 
the  children — as  yet — are  no  respecters  of 
persons.  Next  door  to  them  lives  Selina, 
grim  and  grey,  who  serves  her  old-maid 
mistress  with  a  faithfulness  proof  against 
all    temptations,   but   who   rules   her  with  a 



servants'  kecreation  room  at  the 
akmv  and  navy  club. 

combination  of  obstinate  humility  and  rampant 
remonstrances.  Yet  her  mistress,  who  some- 
times sheds  a  tear  in  secret  because  "  Selina 
is  so  cross,"  would  not  change  her  for  all  the 
streamer-bedecked  parlourmaids  in  the  world. 

Across  the  road  a  young  housemaid  sings 
as  she  does  her  work.  She  has  joined  the 
Girls'  Friendly  Society,  and  a  portrait  of 
her  "G.F.S.  lady"  is  on  the  mantelpiece  in 
her  pretty  attic  bedroom  looking  over  the 
Common.  On  Sundays  she  gets  out  to 
service  regularly.  She  lifts  her  dress  high  to 
show  the  starched  white  petticoat  beneath  it, 
and  as  she  carries  iier  new  prayer-book  in  the 
other  hand  she  feels  sure  that  soon  there  will 
be  a  desirable  young  man  only  too  ready  to 
walk  out  with  her,  and  then  she  would  not 
change  places  with  anyone  in  the  world. 

Let  us  now  enter  one  of  the  fashionable 
squares  on  a  summer  afternoon.  Servant 
life  is  manifest  on  every  hand.  In  the 
garden  nurses  are  sitting  under  the  trees ; 
from  the  doors  the  children  and  nursery 
maids  are  driving  off  to  the  park,  with  the 
schoolroom  footman  on  the  box.  A  newsboy 
comes  leisurely  across  the  .square,  making  it 
ring  with  his  cry,  "  Mall  the  winners  !  "  He 
knows  his  customers.  The  door  of  a  great 
house  opens.  A  powdered  footman  stands  on 
the  steps  and  signals  to  the  boy  ;    his  face  is 

anxious  as  he  takes  the 
paper.  He  is  gone  in  a 
moment,  and  the  house 
is  impassive  and  undis- 
turbed once  more.  A 
little  later  the  butler 
comes  out,  and  makes  his 
way  along  Piccadilly  to- 
wards Charing  Cross.  He 
drops  in,  say,  at  the 
Hotel  Cecil  for  a  moment, 
and  hears  news  of  the 
latest  interesting  arrival. 
He  has  several  friends 
there,  one  a  chef  in  the 
servants'  kitchen,  which 
provides  for  the  wants  of  the  staff  of 
500  persons  ;  another  a  waiter  in  the  banquet- 
ing-room.  The  latter  is  one  of  the  hotel 
fire  brigade,  and  the  butler  stays  to  witness 
a  drill  and  practice.  His  master  is  a  naval 
officer,  so  he  next  visits  a  friend,  a  waiter 
at  the  Army  and  Navy  Club,  who  gives 
him  the  latest  gossip;  for  in  the  recreation 
room  set  apart  for  the  club  servants  the 
day's  news  is  discussed  with  vigour  over  a 
game  of  billiards. 

In  connection  with  St.  Paul's,  Knights- 
bridge,  is  a  Servants'  Club  which  offers  a 
variety  of  attractions.  The  Chesterfield 
Union,    a    benefit    society    for    gentlemen's 




servants,  meets  on  the  ground-floor.  Above 
are  a  couple  of  billiard  tables  and  one  for 
bagatelle,  while  in  the  basement  are  a  skittle 
alley  and  a  fine  ping-pong  table.  The  top 
floor  contains  a  reading  and  dining  room, 
where  a  chop  and  tea  may  be  obtained  at 
one  end,  and  light  literature  at  the  other; 
here,  too,  smoking  concerts  such  as  are  de- 
picted in  our  illustration  below  are  organised 
by  the  members. 

A  coachmen's  club  is  to  be  found  in  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  Berkeley  Square, 
and  the  Duke  of  Westminster  gave  land  for 
the  Grosvenor  Club  in  Buckingham  Palace 
Road  ;  but  here,  though  there  are  a  number  of 
members  who  are  servants,  men  engaged  in 
other  occupations  are  also  admitted. 

Hyde  Park  is  the  real  recreation  ground  of 
West-End  servants.  Before  the  dew  is  off 
the  grass  the  grooms  are  exercising  the 
horses.  Here  is  a  grey-haired  man,  grown 
old  in  the  service  of  "  the  family,"  now 
proudly  superintending  the  baby  horseman- 
ship of  the  young  heir  on  his  diminutive 
pony.  Behind  him  flies  a  young  girl  at 
full  canter,  her  long  hair  streaming  in  the 
wind,  as  the  groom  thunders  along  after  his 

delightful  little  mistress.  As  the  sun  grows 
hotter  the  "  generals  "  bring  their  "  bibies " 
to  sprawl  and  sleep  on  the  grass.  The  neat 
maid  returning  from  a  hairdressing  lesson  in 
Bond  Street  has  an  interesting  chat  with  a 
gentleman's  gentleman  who  has  just  turned 
his  master  out  in  first-class  style,  and  is  him- 
self as  near  a  copy  of  him  as  possible.  In 
the  late  afternoon  the  magnificent  coachman 
surveys  with  stolid  pride  his  equally  magnifi- 
cent horses,  as  they  sweep  round  into  the 
Drive — "  my  horses,"  which  even  "  her  lady- 
ship "  cannot  have  out  at  will.  As  dusk  falls 
sweethearts  crowd  the  shady  alleys  of  the  Pa  rk 
or  wile  away  an  hour  upon  the  Serpentine  ; 
and  more  than  one  of  the  cyclists  enjoying 
the  cool  of  the  evening  is  a  domestic  servant. 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  a  visitor  to  her  friend, 
"  another  new  bicycle,  and  such  a  beauty  ? " 
as  she  looked  at  two  machines  side  by  side 
in  the  narrow  hall. 

"  Oh,  no  !  That  is  not  mine  ;  that  is  cook's — 
she  says  she  can't  keep  in  condition  unless 
she  has  her  ride  every  day." 

The  great  wheel  of  life  in  London  is  for 
ever  turning,  and  the  hands  which  turn  it  are 
those  of  the  servants. 






SOME  one  has  said  that  a  succession 
of  Httle  worries  lias  a  worse  effect 
on  the  nervous  system  than  one  great 
big  worry.  Whether  that  be  true  or  not, 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  Londoner's  hfe  is 
beset  with  httle  worries,  and  that  he  manages 
to  bear  up  against  them  with  commendable 

The  business  man  has  a  hundred  little 
worries  beside  the  ordinary  and  legitimate 
cares  of  his  business.  Let  him  be  guarded 
in  his  office  never  so  effectually  the  worriers 
will  manage  to  get  at  him.  They  will 
waylay  him  in  the  street  as  he  goes  to  his 
lunch,  stop  him  on  the  steps  of  the  Metro- 
politan Railway  as  he  is  about  to  dive 
down  below  for  his  evening  train,  seize  his 
arm  as  he  is  stepping  into  his  hansom  or 
his  brougham.  As  a  rule  these  people  have 
some  slight  claim  of  acquaintanceship  or 
introduction,  or  the  City  man  would  make 
short  work  of  them.  The  worrier  generally 
succeeds   in    capturing    his   prey   just   when 

every  second  is  valuable.  There  are  heads  of 
great  business  houses  who  face  a  commercial 
crisis  with  iron  nerves,  but  are  haunted  day 
and  night  by  the  dread  of  being  held  up 
by  one  of  the  worrying  fraternity. 

While  the  business  man  is  suffering  in 
the  City,  his  wife  has  frequently  her  little 
worries  at  home.  In  this  catalogue  the 
great  servant  question  does  not  enter,  for 
when  a  worry  comes  in  that  direction  it 
is  almost  always  a  big  one.  The  next- 
door  neighbours  are  a  fruitful  source  of  a 
wife's  little  worries.  The  family  on  one  side 
have  dear  little  children  who  play  at  ball  in 
the  garden.  If  they  would  keep  the  ball  on 
their  own  ground  all  would  be  well,  but  it 
is  constantly  coming  over  into  some  one 
else's.  If  you  are  the  some  one  else  and 
amiable,  you  don't  object  to  your  servant 
answering  the  pitiful  little  cry,  "  Please  will 
you  give  me  my  ball  ? "  say  three  or  four 
times  a  day.  But  if  the  youthful  pleaders 
cannot   make   anyone    hear  ihcy   will    come 



to  the  front  door  and  ring  and  ask  per- 
mission to  go  into  the  garden  themselves  and 
hunt  for  the  missing  property.  If  it  has 
hidden  itself  among  the  flower  beds  the 
search  is  not  always  conducted  with  dex- 
terity of  tread.  When  it  dawns  upon  you 
that  your  neighbour's  children  are  making 
your  garden  their  daily  hunting  ground  for 
lost  balls,  you  lose  your  temper.  One  day 
you  pronounce  an  ultimatum.  You  will 
preserve  your  flowers  though  a  hundred 
balls  be  lost.  Then  you  are  looked  upon 
as  unneighbourly  by  the  children's  parents. 
They  scowl  at  you  when  you  meet  in  the 
street.  Occasionally  on  fine  summer  even- 
ings they  make  audible  remarks  to  your 

A  small  vendetta  grows  sometimes  out 
of  this  lost  ball  business.  You  find  a  dead 
cat  in  your  garden  path,  and  you  credit  it  at 
once  to  the  big  brother  next  door.  Occasion- 
ally you  look  up  from  your  garden  chair 
and  discover  the  small  children  at  an  upper 
window  making  rude  faces  at  you.  A  letter 
for  you,  left  by  mistake  at  your  neighbour's 
house,  is  kept  for  two  days  and 
then  given  back  to  the  postman. 
Unneighbourly  messages  are  sent  in 
when  you  have  a  musical  evening. 

Music  enters  largely  into  the 
catalogue  of  London's  little  worries. 
The  piano  next  door  is  a  fertile 
source  of  annoyance.  In  a  flat  it 
occasionally  embitters  existence.  In 
most  London  houses  there  is  a 
piano,  and  it  must  occasionally  be 
played.  But  the  hours  of  practice 
are,  as  a  rule,  ill  chosen.  A  piano 
against  a  wall  in  terraces  or  semi- 
detached villas  invariably  plays  into 
two  houses  at  once.  The  next-door 
piano  sometimes  leads  to  the  Law 

There  are  three  animals  who 
contribute  largely  to  London's  little 
worries — the  dog  that  barks,  the  cat 
that  trespasses,  and  the  cock  that 
crows.  The  parrot  is  a  rarer  source 
of  annoyance,  but  he  makes  up  for 
it  by  being  more  persistent.  To 
live  next  door  to  a  screaming  parrot 
would  tax  the  patience  of  Job. 
People  who  have  suffered  under  the 

infliction  have  often  wondered  why  it  was 
not  included  in  the  lengthy  list  of  that  good 
man's  visitations. 

The  dog  does  not  matter  so  much  in 
the  daytime ;  such  noise  as  he  makes 
mingles  with  and  is  lost  in  the  general 
brouhaha.  But  when  in  the  dead  of  night 
— the  hour  of  sleep — he  begins  to  howl,  or 
to  bark  savagely  at  imaginary  burglars,  or 
to  bay  the  moon,  he  is  a  source  of  discom- 
fort to  an  entire  neighbourhood.  Many  a 
father  of  a  family  forgets  that  his  wife  is 
awake  too,  when  out  of  the  fulness  of  his 
heart  his  mouth  speaketh. 

The  cat  worry  leads  to  a  retaliation  of 
a  more  practical  kind.  It  has  been  known 
to  cause  threats  of  murder  to  poor  pussy. 
"  If  she  comes  into  my  garden  again,  madam," 
cries  the  indignant  householder  proud  of 
his  floriculture,  "  I'll  shoot  that  cat ! "  There 
is  a  more  terrible  end  than  being  shot. 
It  is  one  to  which  poor  Tom  often  comes 
through  playing  Romeo  under  the  balcony 
of  a  feline  Juliet.  The  Capulets  in  their 
wrath  with  the  Montagus  seek  the   Apothe- 

"  LOST    liALI.. 



cary,  and  the  dose  proves  fatal  to  Romeo, 
who,  finding  a  tempting  supper  in  Juliet's 
garden,  partakes  of  it  and  crawls  home  to 
die.  You  may  see  at  any  time  in  London 
handbills  offering  a  reward  for  information 
which  will  lead  to  the  detection  of  the 
poisoner  of  a  favourite  cat.  In  the  Dogs' 
Cemeter}'  in  Hyde  Park  a  heartbroken 
mistress  has  buried  her  murdered  tabb\-. 
Over  its  grave  originally  was  an  inscription 
which  consigned  to  dreadful  torture  here- 
after the  heartless  assassin.  The  inscription 
was  considered  out  of  order  in  a  cemetery, 
and  the  lady  was  compelled  to  remove  it. 
So  she  went  to  a  Chaldean  student  and  had 
the  inscription  translated  into  that  language. 
There  it  now  figures  on  Pussy's  headstone. 
As  no  one  can  read  it,  it  gives  no  offence. 
But  the  curse  remains. 

The  parrot  up  to  a  certain  point,  when 
his  language  has  been  carefully  selected  for 
him,  is  amusing.  But  he  begins  to  be  the 
reverse  when  he  is  placed  in  the  balcony 
to  enjoy  the  sunshine  of  a  summer's  day. 
In  his  joy  he  becomes  incoherent,  and 
shrieks.  When  a  jubilating  parrot  shrieks 
for  a  couple  of  hours  at  a  stretch  he  is 
the  little  worry  of  an  entire  neighbourhood. 

The  begging  letter  impostor  who  knocks 
at   your    door    and     leaves    a    catalogue    of 

'I    WILL   CALL    FOR    AN    ANSWER. 

"  I'll  shoot  that  cat  !  " 

his  miseries,  stating  that  he  will  call  for 
an  answer  later  on,  is  an  infliction  so 
widespread  that  he  deserves  an  article  to 
himself  He  often  works  in  connection  with 
a  gang. 

The  rush  for  the  omnibus  is  a  little 
worry  which  the  fair  .sex  appreciate  more 
than  the  mere  man.  You  can  see  a  crowd 
of  ladies  at  certain  hours  of  the  day 
standing  at  well-known  street  corners,  and 
every  face  is  anxious.  For  'bus  after  'bus 
comes  up  full  inside  and  out.  On  wet  days 
the  anxiety  is  increased,  for  then  "  inside " 
is  a  necessity.  To  make  sure  of  securing  a 
seat  in  the  'bus  is  always  an  anxiety  to  a 
woman,  when  her  time  is  limited,  or  she  has 
to  be  at  a  certain  place  at  a  certain  hour. 
When  it  is  a  case  of  the  "  last  'bus,"  the 
anxiety  becomes  tearful,  almost  hysterical. 
For  to  many  a  cab  is  a  consideration  ;  the 
difference  between  half-a-crown  and  two- 
pence is  sufficient  to  worry  the  careful  house- 
wife who  has  a  limited  income,  the  young 
professional  lady,  the  governess,  or  the  shop 

In  the  winter  time  there  are  little  worries 
with  the  domestic  interior  which  disturb 
the  whole  family.  The  chimney  that  will 
fill  the  sitting  room  with  a  choking  smoke 
is  one  of  them.     In    the    summer  the  chim- 



ney,  always  a  fertile  source  of  anxiety, 
varies  the  performance  by  emptying  its 
soot  suddenly  over  the  hearthrug  and 
carpet,  and  reducing  antimacassars  and 
chair  covers  to  a  pitiful  plight  indeed.  In 
the  winter,  when  the  frost  sets  in,  comes  the 

never  so  well-to-do  the  loss  is  a  worry 
to  him.  He  regrets  that  watch  and  refers 
to  it  for  many  a  month  afterwards.  If  it 
is  a  gold  one  he  registers  a  vow  never 
again  to  wear  anything  but  a  Waterbury. 
The  lost  umbrella  is  a  little  worry  familiar 

head  of  the  articles  that  Londoners  have 
a  habit  of  losing.  It  is  left  in  cabs 
and  trams  and  railway  trains  and  on 
counters.  It  occasionally  happens  that  you 
are   utterly   unable  to  say  where  you  left  it. 

worry  of  the  frozen  cistern  and  the  waterless     to  all  of  us.      The    umbrella  stands  at  the 
home.      When    the    frost    is    followed    by    a 
sudden    thaw  comes   the  worst    worry  of  all 
— the  bursting   pipe.      Then   the   household 
assembles   hurriedly   with   cries    of  terror,   as 
through  the  ceiling  descends  a  sudden  moun- 
tain torrent.     The   servants    rush 
hither  and  thither  with  basins  and 
buckets    to    collect    the    cataract, 
and  a  male  member  is  despatched 
in  hot  haste  for  the  plumber.     In 
most  cases  the  plumber  is  wanted 
in  half  a  dozen    houses    at    once 
and  arrives  when  the  last  possible 
pound's    worth    of    mischief    has 
been  done. 

The  chimney  on  fire,  in  addition 
to  the  mess  and  anxiety  and  the 
damage,  means  a  summons  and 
a  fine.  "  Only  a  chim."  is  the 
official  report  at  the  fire  station 
when  the  message  for  help  comes 
through,  but  "  only  a  chim."  is 
very  expensive  to  the  London 

One  of  the  worries  to  which 
all  Londoners  are  subjected  is 
that  of  having  their  pockets 
picked.  There  is  not  a  day 
passes  but  a  lady  finds  that  while 
shopping,  or  travelling  by  'bus  or 
tram  or  by  train,  she  has   been    relieved  of     The  umbrella   acquires    a    new  value  in  the 


her  purse,  which  she  invariably  carries  in 
a  manner  to  facilitate  its  extraction  by  the 
expert  London  thief  When  she  returns 
to  her  home  pale,  tearful  and  excited,  and 
gasps  out,  "  I've  had  my  pocket  picked — 
my  purse  is  gone ! "  the  worry  is  shared 
by  her  family.  Then  there  is  frequently 
much  anxious  calculation  as  to  what  was 
in  it.  People  who  lose  their  purses  are 
rarely  quite  sure  what  was  in  them.  Some- 
times there  is  intense  relief  to  find  that  a 
five-pound  note  or  a  trinket  had  been  left 
at  home.  Papa  does  not  carry  his  money 
so  recklessly  as  Mamma,  but  he  occasion- 
ally loses  his  watch,  or  a  pin,  and  be  he 

Londoner's  eyes  when  he  comes  home 
without  it.  In  the  first  hour  of  his  bereave- 
ment he  discovers  that  his  umbrella  was 
very  dear  to  him.  Few  of  us  lose  an 
umbrella  with  equanimity.  It  is  always  a 
passing  cloud  across  the  everyday  skies  of 

In  humble  homes  washing  day  is  a 
little  worry — especially  to  father.  Mother's 
mind  is  occupied,  and  the  feminine  nose  is 
not  so  delicate  in  the  matter  of  the  steamy 
odour  which  washing  diffuses  through 
the  house.  In  the  humble  home,  scrub- 
bing day  is  also  a  trial  to  the  male 
members.     For  this  reason  many  respectable 



"  MV    I'lRSE    IS    GONE  !  " 

working  -  class  fathers  do  not  immediately 
return  to  the  domestic  roof  when  released 
from  toil  on  Saturday  afternoon. 

Spring  cleaning  and  house  painting  are 
little  worries  with  which  all  Londoners  are 
familiar.  I  hesitate  to  put  spring  clean- 
ing in  the  catalogue.  It  extends  over  a 
period  of  time,  and  runs  into  so  many 
"  new "  things  in  the  carpet  and  curtain 
line  which  "  we  really  must  have  "  when  the 
house  has  been  done  up,  that  it  strikes  the 
major  rather  than  the  minor  note  in  one's 
"  troubled  lot  below." 

The  latchkey  occasionally  leads  to  a  little 
worry.  Sometimes  we  go  out  without  it 
when  we  are  supposed  to  have  it  with  us. 
This  always  happens  when  its  possession 
is  most  sorely  needed.  Paterfamilias  is 
going  to  a  City  banquet,  or  to  dine  at 
his  club,  and  won't  be  home  till  late. 
The  household  retires  at  its  usual  time. 
About  one  o'clock  the  head  of  the  family 
returns  from  the  festivity  in  a  hansom. 
He  pays  the  driver  and  dismisses  him, 
then  puffing  calmly  at  his  cigar  puts  his 
hand  in  his  pocket  for  his  latchkey.  It  isn't 
there.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  knock. 
It  is  no  good  ringing,  because  the  bells  ring 
below,  and  everyone  is  upstairs.  So  he 
knocks,  gently  at  first,  then,  seeing  no  light 
moving  about,  he  knocks  again  and  presently 

loses  his  temper  and 
bangs  furiously.  The 
whole  neighbourhood 
probably  hears  him  before 
his  own  people.  But 
eventually  he  sees  a  light, 
and  inside  the  door  he 
can  hear  a  nervous  hand 
manipulating  the  chain. 

The  forgotten  latchkey 
is  a  little  worry  that  wise 
men  have  decided  to 
avoid.  They  now  carry 
the  useful  and  convenient 
article  on  a  chain  attached 
to  their  braces. 

There  are  Londoners 
who  suffer  systematic 
annoyance  from  the  un- 
fortunate peculiarities  of 
the  locality  in  which  they 
have  made  a  home. 
Brown  is  in  a  constant  state  of  fever  owing 
to  the  proximity  of  certain  church  bells, 
which  he  declares  ring  without  ceasing. 
Jones  is  the  victim  of  a  steam  whistle, 
which  at  some  large  works  hard  by  his 
happy  home  makes  hideous  disturbance  at 
an  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning  and  at 
intervals  during  the  day.  Robinson  is  the 
victim  of  "  vibration,"  a  railway  passing  near 
his  residence,  his  windows  are  perpetually 
rattling,  his  house  occasionally  "  shudders," 
and  when  a  limited  mail  passes  in  the  night 
his  bed  (the  expression  is  his)  "  rocks  him  " 
not  to  sleep  but  out  of  it. 

Street  noises  have  become  such  madden- 
ing minor  worries  to  Londoners  of  late 
years  that  the  law  has  been  invoked.  The 
old  London  cries  are  no  longer  prized  for 
their  quaintness.  The  street  hawker  is 
ordered  to  moderate  his  methods  by  the 
passing  policeman,  and  the  newspaper  boy 
gets  fourteen  days  for  announcing  another 
"  great  railway  accident "  or  a  "  shocking 
murder"  to  the  homestaying  householder. 

There  are  little  worries  of  the  outdoor 
walk  with  which  all  Londoners  are  familiar. 
Orange  peel  and  banana  skins  on  the 
pavement  are  so  worrying  to  pedestrians 
that  special  police  notices  are  issued  with 
regard  to  them. 

The  Londoner  who  doesn't  smoke  is  con- 



stantly  finding  a  worry  in  the  Londoner 
who  does.  Since  the  fair  sex  and  the  "  pale 
young  curate "  have  socially  elevated  the 
top  of  the  'bus  and  the  roof  of  the  tram 
there  has  been  continual  outcry  against  the 
outside  smoker,  who  puffs  his  tobacco 
into  an  eye  that  looks  upon  it  unsym- 
pathetically.  On  some  'buses  and  trams 
in  the  back  seats  only  may  pipe,  cigar,  or 
cigarette  be  indulged  in.  The  tobacco  smoke 
worry  has  been  relieved  to  this  extent. 

There  is  another  little  worry  which  many 
Londoners  have  endured  for  years  almost 
uncomplainingly,  that  is  the  worry  of  trying 
to  buy  a  postage  stamp  after  8  p.m.  in  a 
suburban  neighbourhood.  It  occasionally 
leads  to  another  little  worry,  namely,  a  letter 
of  no  particular  interest,  for  which  you  have 
to   pay  the  postman  twopence. 

That  the  area  merchant — the  gentleman 
with  a  bag  on  a  barrow  —  who  calls  at 
your  area  door  to  barter  with  your  cook- 
is  a  worry  is  proved  by  the  large  number 
of  London  houses  which  now  exhibit  in 
bold  display  the  printed  legend  "  No 
Bottles,"  sometimes  in  conjunction  with  the 
warning  hint  "  Beware  of  the  Dog." 

Against  this  worry  one  can  always  barri- 
cade one's  doors,  but  there  is  a  worrier  from 
whom  there  is  little  protection.  The  whin- 
ing beggar  who  follows  nervous  women  in 
the  lonely  street  after  nightfall  is  not  easily 
disposed  of  If  the  beggar  is  a  man  he  has 
only  to  look  villainous  and  to  talk  gruffly 
to  levy  his  blackmail.  If  the  beggar  is  a 
woman  she  sometimes  obtains  her  object 
by  pleasantly  referring  to  the  fact  that  she  has 
left  the  bedside  of  a  child  who  is  suffering 
from  scarlet  fever,  small-pox,  or  some  other 
infectious  disease.  There  are  nervous  ladies 
who,  after  being  accompanied  for  a  few 
minutes  by  such  a  woman,  not  only  bestow 
alms  in  their  alarm,  but  rush  home  and 
disrobe  and  subject  their  clothes  to  a  dis- 
infecting process  before  they  wear  them 
again.  For  the  worrying  beggar  with  the 
scarlatina  child  always  takes  care  to  rub 
shoulders  with   her  prey. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  London's  little 
worries,  but  they  are  a  sample  of  the 
mass.  They  are  inevitable  in  the  complex 
life  of  a  great  city.  On  the  whole  they  are 
borne  philosophically  by  everyone — except 
the  people  personally  affected  by  them. 

A    WHl.NI.NG    APPEAL. 




GREAT  as  ha\-e  been  the  improvements  to 
London,  and  numerous  the  benefits 
bestowed  upon  its  inhabitants  during 
recent  years,  there  is  probably  no  item  of 
advancement  more  noticeable  than  that 
which  concerns  provision  for  cleanliness. 
Time  was  when  to  find  a  fitted  bath-room  in 
an  otherwise  elegant  private  house  was  the 
exception,  and  when  a  swimming  bath  was 
a  well-nigh  unknown  luxury  to  dwellers  in 
the  Metropolis  ;  but  nowadays  quite  modest 
houses  boast  their  hot-water  furnished  bath, 
rendering  the  all-over  wash  an  easily  acquired 
feature  of  the  daily  programme ;  and  almost 
every  district  owns  its  public  bathing  estab- 
lishment, comprising  under  one  roof  several 
grades  of  baths — private  and  swimming. 

But    besides    these    noteworthy    signs    of 
grace,  immense  progress  has  been  made  in 

regard  to  wash-houses,  or  laundries,  where, 
under  the  new  order  of  things,  the  public 
is  provided  with  accommodation  and  every 
time-saving  appliance  for  the  washing  of 
clothes  and  household  belongings.  For  the 
rapid  increase  in  the  facilities  for  cleanli- 
ness thanks  are  due  to  the  various  Borough 
Councils  and  to  the  liberality  of  certain 
philanthropists,  who,  in  conjunction  with 
the  (ordinarily)  grumbling  ratepayers,  have 
provided  the  means  to  this  satisfactory 
end.  The  modern  public  baths  and  their 
adjacent  wash-houses  are  the  natural  result  of 
the  gradual  adoption  of  an  Act  of  Parliament 
relating  to  this  subject.  The  comprehensive 
scale  of  their  enterprise  can  be  gauged  by 
realising  the  extent  to  which  they  have  been 
adopted  in  the  Metropolis  and  its  suburbs. 
Their    far-reaching   influence   for   good    can, 





however,  only  be  adequately  judged  by  those 
who  are  familiar  with  the  daily  life  of 
Living  London,  in  its  many  phases,  from 
the  lowest  upwards. 

To  such  a  well-informed  Cockney  the  con- 
sideration of  "  how  London  washes "  would 
provide  a  fairly  exhaustive  review  of 
Metropolitan  existence.  He  would  see  in 
his  mind's  eye  the  various  representatives 
of  hard-working  poverty  washing  their 
meagre  scraps  of  clothing  ;  the  moderately 
prosperous  mem- 
bers  of  the 
tradesman  class 
enjoying  frequent 
hot  baths ;  the 
vast  numbers 
that  stand  for 
energetic  youth 
taking  lessons  in 
swimming,  or 
joining  in  aquatic 
sports  ;  and  the 
smaller  detach- 
ment which  im- 
leisurely  wealth 
indulging   in   the 

various  kinds  of  comparatively  expensive 
baths,  such  as  medicated,  electric,  vapour, 
spray,  and  Turkish. 

The  first  visit  to  a  public  wash-house  is  an 
experience  that  is  not  easily  banished  from 
the  memory,  especially  if  it  take  place  in 
a  poor  locality  and  on  a  popular  day.  Shore- 
ditch,  Hackney,  Bermondsey,  Westminster, 
Soho  (Marshall  Street,  Golden  Square),  are 
fruitful  examples,  and  Friday  and  Saturday 
notable  days.  Marylebone  runs  them  close. 
It  is  remarkable  that  as  the  week  progresses 
the  class  of  person  who  brings  her  possessions 
to  the  wash-houses  deteriorates.  By  some 
unwritten  law  or  unpublished  code  of  manners 
the  orderly  members  of  the  local  community 
almost  entirely  monopolise  the  first  half  of 
the  week,  whilst  the  last  three  days  belong 
to  a  gradually  descending  scale.  The  ex- 
ceptions to  this  almost  invariable  rule  are 
furnished  by  those  whose  wage-earning 
employment  leaves  them  free  only  during 
the  "early  closing"  hours  of  Saturday.  On 
Monday  come  demure  dames,  primly 
precise  of  bearing,  arrayed  with  an  almost 
awe-inspiring  neatness,  even  to  the  full 
complement  of  buttons  on  boots  and  gloves, 
and  the  exact  adjustment  of  the  chenille 
spotted  veil.  Behind  these  worthy  matrons 
is  borne  by  an  attendant  the   brown   paper 




enclosed  consignment  of  linen  destined  for 
the  soapsuds.  Tuesday  sees  a  reproduction 
of  such  dignified  processions,  with,  perhaps, 
less  dignity  as  the  afternoon  advances.  By 
Wednesday  all  pomp  and  vanity  have  dis- 
appeared. Washing  is  frankly  carried,  tied 
up  in  a  sheet  by  the  laundress  herself,  the 
great  bundle  protruding  from  the  shawl  that 
serves  her  as  hat  and  mantle  combined,  or 
it  shares  a  crippled  perambulator  with  two 
small  children.  To  Tom  and  Sallie  the 
weekly  sojourn  in  the  wash-house  ante-room, 
'"long  er  Mrs.  O'Hagan's  Pat  and  Norah," 
while  their  mothers  do  the  washing,  is  the 
most  delightful  of  outings ! 

On  entering  such  a  laundry  from  the  street, 
or   a    cool    stone    staircase,    the    immediate 
impression    is    of    overwhelming    heat    and 
discomforting  clouds  of  steam  ;  but  that  soon 
passes,  and  one  is  conscious  of  a  lofty,  well- 
ventilated    room,   divided    from    end    to    end 
by  rows  of  troughs,  separated    into  couples 
by  six-feet  high  partitions.     In  each  division 
stands  a  woman  washing  ;  at  her  feet  a  pile  of 
dirty    clothes,    and    behind    her    a   basket    of 
clean  ones.     Her  arms   are   plunged   elbow- 
deep   into  one   of  the  two  troughs  of  which 
she   is   temporary    proprietress.      Water    in 
plenty,  hot  and  cold,  is  hers  for  the  turning  of 
overhanging  taps,    whilst   the    conversion    of 
the  rinsing  trough  into  a  copper  is  as  easily 
accomplished— by  opening  a  steam-containing 
valve.     Her  "  wash "  completed,   she  carries 
her  basket  to  one  of  the  men  in  charge  of 
the  row  of  wringers  situated  in  an  adjoining 
room.     A   few  moments  of  rapid  water-ex- 
pelling whirling  whilst  the  laundress  "  stands 
at,"   and    the    clothes   are   returned   to 
her    almost    dry.     She    folds    them    on    long 
tables    near    at    hand,    and    puts    them    into 
a   mangle,   many  of  which   machines   are,   it 
should  be  stated,  now  worked  automatically. 
Should  she  wish  to  iron  her  finer  items,  she 
has  but  to  take  ready-heated  irons  from  the 
stove  hard    by.     Would   she   air  her  clothes 
she  hangs  them  on  a  "horse"  and   pushes 
it  into  a  hot-air  compartment. 

And  for  all  this  luxury  as  laundress  the 
authorities  charge  but  three-halfpence  an 
hour !  Soap  and  soda  they  do  not  provide, 
nor  do  they  limit  her  to  any  given  number  of 
hours  ;  so  she  may  stay  from  8  a.m.  to  8  p.m. 
should  she  feel  disposed.   The  average  attend- 

ance at  each  wash-house  of  the  Metropolis 
is  from  two  to  three  hundred  persons  every 

It  is  curious  to  notice  in  the  most  crowded 
districts  hew  many  nationalities  are  repre- 
sented by  these  people — a  blonde  Swedish 
girl  helping  a  dusky  daughter  of  the  South 
to  get  through  a  heap  of  ironing,  or  a  broad- 
nosed  Russian  grudgingly  lending  a  piece  of 
soap  to  a  sharp-featured  Polish  Jewess. 
Strange  peeps  into  home  tragedies  can  some- 
times be  gained,  as  when  the  overworked 
looking  eldest  child  comes  clattering  up  the 
stone  staircase  bringing  to  its  mother  for 
a  little  while,  the  few-weeks-old  baby ;  or 
when  the  half-sober  husband  lounges  in  to 
bully  the  price  of  another  drink  out  of  her. 
She  is  the  breadwinner,  it  seems. 

The  price  charged  for  hot  baths  and  use  of 
towels  is  twopence,  fourpence,  and  sixpence, 
according  to  class  and  locality,  and  half  each 
of  these  sums  for  children.     All  such  private 
baths  are    kept    scrupulously  clean,    and  the 
cabins  in  which  they  are  fixed  are  furnished 
with  a  seat,  hooks  for  clothing,  and,  in  the  case 
of  the   best,   a   strip   of  carpet,  mirror,  and 
brush   and   comb.     That   these   liberal    con- 
ditions  are   appreciated   is   testified    by   the 
fact  that  they  are  used  by  between  fifty  and 
seventy  thousand  persons  at  each  institution 
annually.     At  Westminster  they  tell  a  tale  of 
a    certain    flower-seller    which    is   well   worth 
quoting:   Every   Saturday  evening,   week   in, 
week  out,  comes  this  girl,  clad   just  as    she 
would  be  when  crying  "  Penny  er  bunch  "  on 
the  kerb-stone      She   enters  from  the  street 
by  the  "  wash-house  "  door,  and  proceeds  to  a 
private    room,    where    she    takes    off  all    her 
clothes  but  her  skirt  and  jacket,  and  puts  her 
front   locks  into  curlers.     Then  she  hires  a 
trough,  mangle,  etc.,  for  an  hour,  submits  her 
underwear    to    the  cleansing   process,  finally 
hanging  it  up  to  air  ;  that  done,  she  buys  a 
ticket  for  a  twopenny  hot  bath,  bathes  herself, 
puts  on  her  clean  clothes,  combs  her  fringe,  and 
for  the  expenditure  of  threepence-halfpenny 
emerges  as  good  an  imitation  of  "new  woman  " 
as  anybody  else  could  compass  at  any  price  ! 
For    those  who  can  afford    a  "  first-class " 
bath  a  comfortable  waiting-room  is  provided, 
with  fire  and  a  goodly  supply  of  newspapers. 
It  often  serves  as  a  sort  of  House  of  Assem- 
bly to  a  certain  set  of  local  worthies,  who 






count  on  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  to 
meet  neighbours  and  discuss  the  affairs  of 
the  nation. 

That  swimming  should  at  last  have  come 
to  be  regarded  by  the  School  Board  as  a 
necessary  item  of  education  is  a  fact  on 
which  we  should  heartily  congratulate  our- 
selves. Thanks  in  the  matter  are  undoubtedly 
due  to  the  persistent  efforts  of  a  few  private 
enthusiasts  as  well  as  to  the  energy  of  such 
philanthropic  bodies  as  the  Life-saving 
Society,  the  Swimming  Association  of  Eng- 
land, and  the  London  Schools  Swimming 

Practical  testimony  is  given  to  the  serious- 
ness of  the  modern  views  of  J:he  situation 
by  the  provision  of  free  lessons  in  swimming 
at  the  public  elementary  schools.  All  the 
summer  large  detachments  from  the  various 
Board  schools,  in  charge  of  masters  or  mis- 
tresses, present  themselves  daily  for  lessons 
at  several  of  the  baths.  Funny  scenes 
occur  when  the  children  take  their  first 
plunge  into  so  large  an  of  water ! 
Some  of  them  decline  to  leave  the  steps  at 
the  shallow  end,  or  cling  desperately  to  the 
rail  that  runs  round,  only  gaining  courage 
by  very  slow  degrees  and  after  having  been 
carried  about  by  the  patient  instructor.  But 
such  alarms  are  gradually  conquered,  and 
the  children  become  as  much  at  home  as 
ducks  in  the  water,  and  willingly  take  part 
in  various  sports  and  life-saving  instruction, 
their  competency  as  swimmers  and  life-savers 
often  being  the  means  of  rescuing  playmates 
from  drowning  in  the  course  of  holiday  expe- 

ditions. It  has  even  happened  that  a  child 
has  rescued  his  father. 

In  order  to  bring  the  benefits  afforded  by  the 
swimming  bath  within  the  reach  of  most  young 
folk  the  ordinary  twopenny  entrance-fee  is 
reduced  to  a  penny  for  schools  ;  and  that  the 
art  of  natation  may  be  more  generally  acquired 
many  University  men  and  others  generously 
give  their  services  as  instructors  and  also  pay 
for  the  bath.  There  are,  for  instance,  associa- 
tions formed  amongst  the  Post  Office  employes, 
telegraph  boys,  shop  assistants,  poor  boys 
and  girls  in  Homes,  and  others,  all  of  which 
are  encouraged  by  well-known  enthusiastic 
experts,  and  meet  for  practice  and  instruction. 

The  swimming  clubs  of  London  number 
about  two  hundred,  and  are  composed  of 
members  of  every  class — boys  and  girls, 
young  men  and  maidens,  representing  all  the 
various  grades  of  well-being.  In  several 
instances  their  formation  resulted  from  the 
initiative  of  some  of  the  large  employers, 
such  as  Messrs.  Cook,  Son  and  Co.,  of  St. 
Paul's  Churchyard,  whose  care  for  the 
physical  development  of  their  clerks  and 
others  has  had  the  happiest  effect  both 
mentally  and  physically.  The  "  Ravens- 
bourne  "  is  the  designation  by  which  Messrs. 
Cook's  club  is  known  ;  and,  thanks  to  the 
excellent  work  done  at  its  weekly  meetings, 
its  annual  display  at  Westminster  Baths  draws 
great  crowds  of  spectators^friends  of  the 
competitors  and  members  of  similar  asso- 

Another  popular  meeting  is  the  free  public 
display  held  every  summer  at  the  Highgate 



Ponds  by  the  Life-saving  Society,  at  which 
as  many  as  30,000  spectators  assemble. 

A  curious  lack  of  knowledj^e  of  self-pre- 
servation is  disclosed  by  our  soldiers,  it  having 
been  found  necessary  to  teach  swimming  to 
thousands  of  the  Guards.  They  learned 
the  art  at  St.  George's  Baths,  Buckingham 
Palace  Road,  and  it  was  amusing  to  note 
that  some  of  the  stalwart  fellows,  absolutely 
dauntless  in  other  circumstances,  showed  an 
almost  childlike  timidity  in  facing  so  un- 
accustomed an  experience.  How  well  their 
quickly  acquired  courage  and  ability  in 
dealing  with  water  have  served  them  has 
since  been  remarkably  demonstrated. 

Although  the  feminine  portion  of  the 
community  is  making  undeniable  progress 
towards  the  popularising  of  swimming,  it 
is  found  somewhat  difficult  to  interest  the 
poorer  classes  of  girls  in  this  art.  Broadly 
speaking,  they  do  not  care  for  gymnastics  of 
whatever  sort  in  anything  like  the  degree 
that  their  brothers  do.  This  they  prove  by 
their  disregard  of  the  opportunity  for  e.xercise 
provided  all  the  winter  by  the  covering  in 
and  fitting  with  gymnastic  appliances  of 
some  of  the  swimming  baths.  But  the  same 
remarks  do  not  hold  good  in  connection  with 
the  sisters  of  our  public  school  boys.  Uni- 
versity men,  and  so  on  ;  they  are  veritable 
mermaids !  Ambitious  mermaids,  too,  with 
a.  very  decided  in- 
tention to  rival  all 
comers  in  pro 
ficiency  and  grace. 
Thanks  to  their 
comprehensive  love 
of  frame-develop- 
ing sports,  their 
achievements  in  the 
water  are  of  no 
mean  order.  To 
see  them  at  their 
best  one  should 
belong  to  the  Bath 
Club,  a  luxurious 
institution  in  Dover 
Street,  Piccadilly, 
once  the  town 
mansion  of  Lord 
where,  whilst  en- 
joying all  the 

advantages  of  an  ordinary  social  club,  one 
has  the  run  of  every  variety  of  bath —, 
shower,  douche,  swimming,  etc. — provided 
on  the  premises.  This  popular  and  well- 
managed  establishment  is  frequented  by  both 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  who  claim  the  use 
of  the  baths  on  alternate  days.  There  are 
2,000  members,  of  whom  500  are  of  the 
gentler  sex. 

The  swimming  bath  at  this  club  is  unique 
in  its  accessories,  having  suspended  over  the 
water,  besides  several  diving  boards  and 
Newman's  water-chute,  not  a  few  gymnastic 
appliances,  such  as  trapeze  and  travelling 
rings.  The  contests  at  the  Bath  Club,  either 
for  the  men  members  or  their  feminine 
relatives,  always  attract  a  large  attendance 
• — spectators  filling  the  gallery  and  thickly 
surrounding  the  bath  edge.  The  variety  of 
costumes  worn  by  the  ladies  —  some  of 
mermaid-imitating  scales,  others  of  gaily 
striped  materials — and  the  floral  decorations 
of  the  place  provide  a  very  attractive 

The  height  of  luxury  in  the  way  of  taking 
a  bath  is  attained  by  the  Turkish  variety. 
It  is  practised  in  perfection  at  the  Hammam 
(or  Turkish  bath)  in  Jermyn  Street,  St.  James's. 
It  costs  four  shillings,  and  it  takes  two  hours ; 
but  nothing  yet  invented  by  Londoners,  or 
annexed    from   abroad,   has   ever  come    near 


£;^5l>^  i? 





the  delicious  experience  or  the  restorative 
quality  of  the  Turkish  bath.  One  enters,  a 
world-weary  wreck,  tired  from  travelliny^, 
working,  pleasuring,  ma\-be,  rheumatic  ;  one 
sits,  or  reclines,  in  a  succession  of  hot-air 
rooms,  each  of  the  eight  hotter  than  the  last 
—varying  from  112°  F.  to  280°  F. — until  a 
sufficient  perspiration  has  been  attained. 
Then  one  is  conducted  to  the  shampooing 
room,  and,  whilst  reposing  on  a  marble  slab, 
one  is  massaged  by  light-handed  attendants. 
That  process  is  followed  by  a  series  of 
brushes  and  different  soaps ;  and,  after  a 
variety  of  shower  douches  and  a  plunge  into 
cold  water,  the  bath  is  complete.  A  sojourn 
in  a  lofty  cooling  room,  a  quiet  smoke,  or 
a  light  meal,  and  one  sallies  forth  a  new 
being.  A  visit  to  the  gallery  of  the  attendant 
hairdressers  makes  perfection  more  perfect. 

This  bath  is  patronised  by  gentlemen  only, 
but  many  districts  now  boast  their  Hammam, 

open  to  both  sexes — among  others,  Charing 
Cross,  Earl's  Court,  Islington,  Camden  Town, 
Bri.xton — at  all  of  which  the  price  is  ex- 
tremely moderate,  some  even  descending  to 
one  shilling. 

The  vapour  bath  (obtainable  at  the 
Marylebone  and  a  few  other  public  baths) 
is  an  excellent  substitute  for  the  Turkish 
should  limited  time  be  a  consideration. 
Various  medicated  baths  are  also  used  by 
a  section  of  Londoners — such  as  pine,  bran^ 
sulphur — to  cure  certain  ailments,  as  alterna- 
tive to  foreign  springs,  etc.,  whilst  electricity 
is  impelled  through  the  water  at  the  request 
of  some  others.  This  sort  of  bath  is  occasion- 
ally used  in  conjunction  with  the  Swedish 
system  of  treatment  (massage  and  exercises 
by  means  of  mechanical  appliances),  now 
much   practised   in   the   Metropolis. 

Given  the  desire  to  wash,  the  means  are 
certainly  not  lacking  in  Living  London. 



AWAITING    THE    AKkl\  AL   Ob    Mi.MSTEKS   Tu    A'lTE.NU    A    CABINET    COUNXIL. 


By   L.    BRINDLE. 

IT  has  been  said,  and  with  very  good 
reason,  that  the  things  that  impress 
one  most  in  London  are  the  thincfs 
that  one  does  not  see,  which  one  cannot 
see,  but  of  which  one  has  a  tolerably  ac- 
curate knowledge  if  a  student  of  such 
matters,  derived  and  assimilated  from  a 
hundred  sources  in  the  course  of  many 

Royalty,  Parliament,  the  City,  all  these 
are  in  truth  wonderfully  impressive,  and  we 
see  them,  or  something  pertaining  to  them, 
almost  every  day  of  our  lives  in  London. 
But  all  the  time  there  is  something  else 
which  we  feel  among  us,  but  which  we 
never  .see  unless  we  are  more  than  usually 
favoured  mortals.  In  London,  especially 
when  some  country  visitor  is  with  us,  we 
often  feel  a  sense  of  pride  and  import- 
ance which  may  be  partly  accounted  for 
by  the  ostensible  wonders  of  the  capital 
and  partly  by  the  common  instinct  to 
which  Dr.  Johnson  gave  utterance  when  he 
remarked  to  Boswell,  "  I  will  venture  to  say 
there  is  more  learning  and  science  within 
the  circumference  of  ten  miles  from  where 
we    now    sit    than     in    all     the    rest    of   the 

kingdom."  Yet  even  with  all  this  there  is 
a  balance  still  to  be  accounted  for,  and  I 
think  that  if  most  of  my  readers  will 
examine  their  own  minds  on  the  subject 
they  will  agree  that  it  is  made  up  of  that 
other  instinct  which  consists  mainly  of  one's 
appreciation  of  the  fact  that  here  in  Lon- 
don we  are  pulling  every  day  the  strings 
of  the  Empire,  the  greatest  empire  which 
has  ever  existed.  We  do  not  see  these 
strings,  nor  do  we  see  anybody  pulling 
them — seldom  indeed  do  we  catch  a  glimpse 
of  the  dignitaries  who  perform  this  awe- 
inspiring  task.  But  we  know  that  it  is 
done,  and  we  know  furthermore  that  there 
is  not  a  nation  of  the  world  but  has  just 
as  much  appreciation — it  may  be  admiring 
appreciation  or  it  may  be  bitter  appreciation 
— of  this  great  and  all  -  important  fact  as 
we  and  our  country  visitor  have.  We 
walk  with  him  along  the  western  side  of 
Whitehall,  and  we  point  out  to  him  the 
solid  and  stately  structures  which  make  this 
such  a  noble  thoroughfare.  And  it  is 
here,  within  an  area  of  but  a  few  acres 
after  all,  that  these  strings  are  for  the  most 
part    pulled.     To-day    a    Minister  in    one  of 




these  buildings  dictates  an  instruction  to 
one  of  his  private  secretaries ;  an  hour 
later  the  message  which  is  the  result  of 
it  is  speeding  its  way  along  thousands  of 
miles  of  the  ocean  bed.  To-morrow  our 
great  pro-consul  acts  upon  the  order  which 
he  has  received,  and  the  news  of  the  sig- 
nificant departure  in  policy  is  cabled  back 
to  every  newspaper  in  London,  to  every 
newspaper  in  the  world — more  than  that, 
to  the  chancellery  of  every  Power ;  and  the 
foreign  Ministers  knit  their  foreheads  and 
bite  their  pens  and  scowl  when  they  read  this 
news,  and  understand  that  Downing  Street 
has  advanced  another  point.  One  of  the 
big  strings  has  been  pulled  again. 

And,  again,  there  is  a  crisis  in  some  home 
affair  which  is  of  urgent  importance  to  the 
well-being  of  a  very  large  number  of  people. 
It  may  pertain  to  the  care  of  an  industry, 
or  to  the  soundness  of  the  people's  educa- 
tion, or  to  any  other  of  the  thousand  ques- 
tions which  ever  and  again  are  troubling 
the  public  mind.  Interested  persons  hurry 
now  to  Whitehall,  and  there  are  long 
conversations  in  the  rooms  of  Ministers, 
after  which  the  interested  persons,  with 
their  minds  all  in  a  state  of  doubt  and 
trepidation,  go  their  way.  A  few  hours 
later  an  order  is  promulgated  from  the  seat 
of  authority,  and,  as  likely  as  not,  the 
trouble  at  that  moment  is  at  an  end.  One 
of  the  smaller  strings  has  been  pulled. 
We  never  see  the  pulling  of  these  strings, 
but  we  feel  each  and  every  day  that  it  is 
being  done  here  in  London  as  it  can  be 
nowhere  else,  and  somehow  this  grand, 
this  exalted  official  life  that  is  being  lived 
in  the  Metropolis  permeates  the  atmosphere 
which  we  breathe  and  gives  us  a  quicken- 
ing sense  of  pride  and  importance. 

But  now,  though  we  have  said  that  none 
of  these  things  are  visible,  we  will  avail 
ourselves  of  a  more  than  usually  special 
permit — which  we  will  say  at  once  would 
be  granted  to  no  person  alive,  save  the 
King  and  his  Ministers — and  will  take  brief  at  some  of  the  scenes  which  are 
enacted  in  Downing  Street  and  other  places 
curtained  off  from  the  public  gaze.  When 
we  come  down  to  a  cold  analysis  there  is 
much  that  is  quite  ordinary  in  these  scenes  ; 
but  they  inspire  a  vast  amount  of  awe  not- 

withstanding. To  all  outward  appearances 
a  meeting  of  company  directors  is  much 
the  same  as  a  meeting  of  kings,  but  they 
are  very  different  meetings  after  all.  So  it 
is  with  these  scenes. 

What  meeting,  for  instance,  would  one 
regard  with  greater  interest  and  curiosity 
than  a  meeting  of  the  Cabinet,  fraught 
as  it  often  is  with  the  destiny  of  the 
nation  ?  This  is  so  well  realised  that, 
especially  on  a  cold  damp  afternoon  in  the 
middle  of  winter  when  the  Ministers  gather 
themselves  together  from  the  four  points  of 
the  compass  in  Downing  Street  for  the  first 
time  since  the  beginning  of  the  autumn  recess, 
there  is  quite  a  big  crowd  to  see  them  going 
in,  one  by  one,  to  their  solemn  deliberations 
which  have  regard  to  the  programme  of 
the  forthcoming  session  of  Parliament. 
Some  come  on  foot,  .some  in  hansom  cabs, 
others  drive  up  in  their  own  well  -  ap- 
pointed carriages,  and  Ministers  have  even 
been  known  upon  occasion  to  ride  up  to  a 
Cabinet  Council  upon  their  cycles.  It  is 
the  same  with  other  Cabinet  Councils,  which 
are  held  in  frequent  succession  after  the 
first  one,  but  it  is  in  this  that  the  public 
interest  is  keenest,  because  it  marks  the 
awakening  of  official  life  after  the  autumn 
siesta.  The  people  see  the  Ministers  come 
and  see  them  disappear  under  the  archway 
that  leads  to  the  great  quadrangle,  and  then 
as  far  as  they  are  concerned,  the  Cabinet 
Council  is  at  an  end,  for  they  witness  no  more 
of  it,  and  only  the  most  meagre  paragraph 
report  of  its  doings,  and  that  usually 
mere  speculation,  ever  finds  its  way  into 
the  papers. 

A  wonderful  secrecy  is  preserved  with 
regard  to  all  that  pertains  to  these  meetings. 
They  are  usually  held  in  a  room  on  the 
ground  floor  at  the  Foreign  Office,  and 
in  white  letters  there  is  painted  on  the 
door  of  it  "  Private."  The  furniture  of  ihe 
room  is  not  elaborate,  and  there  is  little 
to  distract  the  attention  of  Ministers  from 
the  business  in  hand.  The  Prime  Minister 
takes  his  seat  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
and  the  other  Ministers  place  themselves 
round  the  board  as  best  suits  their  con- 
venience, but  in  no  set  order.  Then  the 
door  is  closed,  and  upon  no  pretence 
whatever   may   any  outsider  gain   admission 



to  the  chamber  until  all  is  over.  The 
Prime  Minister  has  an  electric  bell  at  his 
elbow,  and  if  need  arises  he  summons 
a  departmental  official  or  a  servant  to  the 
room,  but  he  docs  so  as  seldom  as  possible, 
and  when  the  outsider  is  present  the  de- 
liberations are  suspended.  Ministers  may 
bring  with  tliein  the  private  Government 
papers  which  have  been  addressed  to  them, 
and  of  which  the>-  have  need,  and  there  are 
also  upon  the  table  documents  that  have 
been  printed  in  the  private  Government 
printing  office,  and  which  are  endorsed 
"  Most  Secret.  For  the  use  of  the  Cabi- 
net " ;  but  they  may  produce  no  paper 
for  the  making  of  notes  for  their  own 
use  as  to  the  proceedings  of  the  day.  It 
is  a  strict  rule  that  no  minutes  of  any 
kind  whatsoever  shall  be  made  of  the 
business  which  is  discussed,  each  Minister 
having  perforce  to  content  himself  with 
his  mental  impression  of  what  takes  place. 
This  is  all  for  the  sake  of  secrecy.  The 
business  may  be  comparatively  trivial,  and 
may  last  but  half  an  hour  ;  or  there  may  be 
laid  before  this  meeting  of  the  executive 
Government  a  threat  of  war  or  a  proposal 
for  peace  from  some  foreign  country,  and 
for    hours    and    hours    the    Cabinet    may    sit 

with  anxious  faces  and  minds  which  hesitate 
between  two  courses  upon  which  depend  the 
future  of  our  Empire.  Ministers  have  even 
been  known  to  be  summoned  to  a  meeting 
of  the  Cabinet  when  Big  Ben  hard  by  has 
been  striking  the  midnight  hour,  and  have 
remained  in  conference  until  the  daylight 
has  streamed  through  the  windows  upon 
their  ashen,  worn-out  countenances. 

But  there  is  another  great  Council  of 
the  State,  about  which  we  are  privileged  to 
learn  even  less.  The  only  report  which  we 
are  ever  allowed  to  read  is  the  simple 
one  contained  in  the  Court  announcements, 
which  may  run  thus  : — 

"  His  Majesty  The  King  held  a  Council  at  Buck- 
ingham Palace  to-day  at  12  o'clock.  There  were 
present : — The  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  K.G.  (Lord  President),  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk,  K.G.,   and  the  Marquess  of  Cholmondoley." 

That  is  all.  It  is  a  Privy  Council  which 
has  been  held  in  this  case,  and  it  usually 
assembles  in  one  of  the  royal  residences,  the 
King,  of  course,  presiding.  There  are  many 
members  of  the  Privy  Council  ;  but  as  a 
rule  only  Ministers,  certain  great  officers  of 
the  Household,  and  sometimes  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  are  summoned  to  the 




A  summons  to  the  whole 
Council  is  sent  out  only  upon 
the  most  extraordinary  occa- 
sion. What  the  functions  of 
the  Privy  Council  precisely  are 
it  is  hard  to  say ;  a  Privy 
Councillor  himself  would 
have  difficulty  in  answering 
such  a  question.  But  in 
theory  it  is  what  the  Cabinet 
is  in  practice.  Its  real  prac- 
tical value  is  as  a  necessary 
medium  between  the  throne 
and  the  executive  Govern- 
ment, and  so  we  may  imagine 
at  these  meetings  the  King 
and  his  Ministers  chatting 
over  points  in  matters  of 
State,  or  perchance  discussing 
details  of  some  ceremony 
which  is  soon  to  take  place. 
The  Privy  Council  is  thus 
of  service  ;  but  perhaps  the 
general  sentiment  concerning 
it  as  a  whole,  as  apart  from 
its  divisions,  is  that  it  is  a 
very  good  reserve  council, 
which  might  conceivably 
upon  occasion  be  of  the 
greatest  utility.  The  Privy 
Councillor,  whom  we  see  in 
our  fancy  with  the  King,  has  taken  an  oath 
that  he  will  "  advise  his  Majesty  to  the  best 
of  his  cunning  and  discretion,"  that  he  will 
keep  the  King's  council  secret,  that  he  will 
help  and  strengthen  the  execution  of  what 
shall  be  resolved,  and,  amongst  other  things, 
that  he  will  observe,  keep,  and  do  all  that 
a  good  and  true  Councillor  ought  to  do 
to  his  Sovereign  Lord.  Besides  the  King 
and  his  Councillors  there  is  admitted  to 
the  apartment  the  Clerk  of  the  Council, 
who  has  also  to  take  a  most  solemn  oath 
that  he  will  reveal  nothing  of  what  is  dis- 

These  are  the  Councils  of  the  chiefs  ; 
consider  the  latter  now  in  their  own  de- 
partments where  they  are  certainly  not  less 
interesting,  and  only  a  trifle  less  private. 
There  are  two  of  the  ministerial  offices  that 
help  to  make  up  the  great  quadrangle  to 
the  left  of  Downing  Street,  which  possess 
deeper  interest  for  the  curious  outsider  than 


most  of  the  others,  and  these  are  the 
Foreign  Office  and  the  Colonial  Office,  the 
work  of  each  of  which  is  of  vast  and  en- 
during importance. 

Observe  the  Secretary  of  State  for 
Foreign  Affairs  at  work  in  his  own  room. 
As  befits  the  apartment  which  is  reserved 
for  the  man  who  deals  direct  with  the 
heads  of  all  other  Governments,  it  is  lux- 
uriously furnished.  There  are  beautiful, 
morocco  leather  -  covered  chairs,  and  there 
is  a  particular  one  of  them  upon  which 
scores  of  ambassadors  have  in  turn  been 
wont  to  sit  when  they  have  called  upon 
the  Minister  to  discuss  some  matter  of 
urgent  international  importance.  There  is 
a  writing  table  in  the  room  with  a  number 
of  pigeon-holes  attached  to  it,  labelled 
"  Home  Secretary,"  "  Minister  of  the 
Colonies,"  and  so  forth.  It  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  here  are  contained  the 
secrets  of  an  empire.     At  the  Foreign  Office 


L1\I.\G    LONDON. 


upon  occasion  his  Lordship  will  hold  a  great 
reception,  and  there  will  come  to  it  the 
Corps  Diplomatique,  and  many  other  persons 
of  high  degree,  presenting  an  imposing  and 
even  showy  spectacle. 

There  are  perhaps  fewer  displays  of 
magnificence  in  connection  with  other  great 
departments,  but  they  are  scarcely  less 
interesting.  The  Foreign  Office  may  deal 
with  the  world ;  but  at  least  the  Colonial 
Office,  on  the  other  side  of  the  great  arch- 
way, concerns  itself  with  all  that  part  of 
the  world  which  we  have  the  pleasure  to 
call  our  own.  Wending  our  way  up  the  , 
wide  and  handsome  staircase,  having  some 
business  with  the  Colonial  Secretary  or  one 
of  his  subordinates,  we  are  ushered  by  an 
attendant  into  a  waiting-room  overlooking 
the  quadrangle,  which  is  pleasant  enough  in 
its  way,  but  which  is  principally  decorated 
with  maps  with  big  blotches  of  red  upon 
them.  This  is  indicative  of  the  business  of 
the  office.  I'robably  there  are  many  other 
persons  waiting  in  this  room,  even  some 
with  dark  skins  who  form  a  deputation  to 
the  Minister  from  one  of  those  far-off  lands 
which  are  under  the  British  sway.  Within, 
the  Colonial  .Secretary  is  hard  at  work  with 
more  maps  around  him.     Everything  in  the 

room  suggests  work, 
hard  work,  and  heavy 

In  another  depart- 
ment there  is  the  Home 
Secretary  on  duty.  He. 
too,  is  a  very  busy  man, 
controlling  as  he  does 
most  of  those  insular 
matters  which  more 
closely  affect  the  comfort 
and  prosperity  of  people 
at  home.  Ordinary  folk 
understand  the  functions 
of  the  Home  Secretary 
better  than  they  do 
those  of  the  Foreign 
Minister.  Some  of 
them  may  have  heard 
that  he  has  in  a  little 
room  hard  by  his  own 
a  telephone  by  means 
of  which  he  may  speak 
direct  to  New  Scotland 
Yard  at  any  time  without  a  moment's 
delay  upon  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  It 
is  really  .so. 

A  little  further  down  Whitehall  there  is  a 
building,  one  of  the  Government  group, 
at  the  sight  of  which  all  but  millionaires 
are  often  apt  to  experience  a  curious  creepy 
feeling.  This  is  the  Treasury,  which  is  pre- 
sided over  by  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer, and  whence  the  income  tax  and 
all  other  taxes  come.  It  is  the  headquarters 
of  the  national  finance,  and  when  folk  want 
to  grumble  whilst  there  is  yet  time — as 
they  invariably  do — at  the  taxes  they  have 
to  pay,  they  repair  to  the  Treasury  in 
deputation  form,  and  talk  the  matter  over 
with  the  Chancellor.  But  whoever  he  be,  the 
Chancellor  is  invariably  a  .shrewd  man 
with  a  cold  heart,  and  the  deputation  in 
departing  is  not  often  a  merry  one.  Else- 
where there  are  the  Education  Office,  the 
Board  of  Trade,  the  India  Office,  and 
others,  the  precise  characters  of  which  are 
indicated  in  their  titles.  There  is  an  office 
for  everything  and  everywhere. 

There  are  still  two  which  have  not  yet 
been  mentioned,  but  in  regard  to  which 
public  interest  is  always  keen ;  at  special 
times    exceptionally    so.      The   War    Office 










O    H 
Z    if) 


h-    u. 



and  the  Admiralty,  controlling  as  they  do 
the  mighty  forces  of  the  Empire  on  land  and 
sea,  have  in  due  season  news  to  give  which 
will  make  London  throb  with  pride,  and 
which  will  at  the  same  time  cast  a  per- 
petual shadow  over  many  homes  that 
were  once  the  happiest  in  the  land.  There 
may  be  a  report  that  a  British  warship  has 
foundered,  and  there  are  groups  of  terror- 
stricken  mothers  and  wives  and  sisters — 
perhaps  male  relatives  also — in  the  comfort- 
less corridors  of  the  enormous  building  which 
lies  between  Spring  Gardens  and  the  Horse 
Guards.  Looking  from  one  of  the  windows 
the  King,  with  a  brilliant  staff  of  War  Office 
officials,  may  perhaps  be  seen  distributing 
the  medals  of  victory  to  his  soldiers  upon 
the    Horse   Guards    Parade,   but   these   poor 

creatures  in  the  Admiralty  can  hardly  think 
at  such  a  time  of  the  glory  of  arms.  A  sooth- 
ing word  may  be  spoken  by  one  of  the  officials 
attired  in  a  blue  uniform  with  an  anchor  on 
his  cap,  but  what  consolation  is  that? 

In  the  War  Office  itself  the  Secretary  of 
State  is  assisted  in  the  multifarious  duties 
he  performs  by  the  distinguished  men 
who  form  the  Army  Council.  In  imagina- 
tion one  may  see  a  line  of  red  and  khaki 
spreading  from  the  War  Office  to  the 
uttermost  ends  of  the  Empire,  and  with 
our  preliminary  reflection  in  mind  the 
War  Office  then  is  a  convenient  spot  to 
terminate  a  tour  through  secret  places 
which  have  told  such  a  tale  of  the  great 
imperial  body  of  which  London  is  the 
mighty  throbbing  heart. 

rholv:  rtHutU  i  Snnt.  Hati'CSt. ,  Vf. 






FOR  persons  who  live  above  a  certain 
social  level  Saturday  night  has  no 
particular  features  to  distinguish  it 
from  any  other  night  of  the  week  ;  but  for 
the  vast  majority  of  those  who  live  below 
that  serene  altitude  it  is  the  most  important 
night  of  the  secular  six  :  it  means  to  them 
pretty  much  what  a  coming  into  port  means 
to  the  seaman  or  a  harvest-home  to  the 

The  City  emptying  itself  much  earlier  than 
usual  on  Saturday,  outgoing  trains,  'buses, 
and  trams  are  crammed  to  excess  between 
one  o'clock  and  five  ;  then,  from  six  to  eight, 
incoming  trams,,  'buses,  and  trains  are  equally 
burdened,  for  many  who  went  out  early  are 
returning  now  with  friends,  sweethearts, 
wives,  or,  at  pantomime  time,  with  small 
excited  members  of  their  families,  in  a  hurry 
to  add  themselves  to  the  extra  long  Saturday- 
night  queues  stretching  away  from  the  pit 
and  gallery  doors  of  the  principal  theatres. 

Now,  too,  when  there  is  a  chance  of 
escaping  observation  in  the  darkness,  the 
pawn-shops  are  at  their  busiest :  shrinking 
figures,  mostly  of  women,  flit  in  and  out  by 
obscure  side-doors,  some  on  a  regular  Satur- 
day night  errand  to  redeem  Sunday  wearing 
apparel  that  is  as  regularly  put  away  again 
on  Tuesday  or  Wednesday  when  the  domestic 
treasury  is  again  exhausted  ;  others  carrying 
household  articles  sufficiently  mortgageable 
to  raise  the  price  of  to-morrow's  dinner,  a 
husband  being  out  of  work,  or  delayed  on 
the  way  home  exhaustively  refreshing  himself, 
and  not  expected  to  arrive  with  any  con- 
siderable salvage  of  his  week's  wages. 

There  are  insignificant,  comfortable  people 
who  sent  a  servant  out  to  do  their  shopping 
this  morning  or  ordered  their  Sunday  require- 
ments of  tradesmen  who  call  at  the  door,  and 
this  evening  they  will  go,  perhaps,  to  some 
little  party  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  or  give 
a  little  party  of  their  own  ;  or,  during  the 
summer  and  autumn,  they  may  make  an 
afternoon  excursion  up  the  river  to  Hampton 
Court  or  down  to  Greenwich,  and  come  back 





pleasantly  tired,  just  in  time  to  share  a  'bus 
or  a  railway  carriage  with  jovial  amateur 
cricketers  or  footballers  homing  from  a 
Saturday's  match. 

In  the  main,  however,  Saturday  night  is 
given  over  to  the  great  weekly  shopping 
carnival  of  the  poor,  and  of  all  such  as 
live  carefully  on  limited  incomes.  They  do 
their  marketing,  from  custom  or  necessity 
or  for  sheer  preference,  in  the  very  last 
hours  of  the  last  day  of  the  week,  and  they 
do  most  of  it  in  those  boisterous,  cheerful, 
plenteous,  cornucopia-like  thoroughfares  where 
costermongers  are  still  allowed  to  congregate 
and  compete  with  the  shopkeepers. 

Of  course,  the  genteel  business  ways  of 
the  west  know  nothing  whatever  of  that 
carnival.  In  that  region  shutters  are  up 
early,  and  when  Berwick  Street  and  other 
arteries  of  Soho  are  congested  with  stalls 
and  buyers  and  sellers,  and  doing  a  roaring 
trade  in  every  sense  of  the  phrase,  the  select 
shops  of  Oxford  Street,  Regent  Street,  and 
Piccadilly  are,  nearly  all  of  them,  closed  and 
enjoying  a  foretaste  of  their  Sunday  sleep. 

Broadly  speaking,  Saturday  night's  trade 
follows  the  costers,  and  finds  them  all  over 
London :  it  finds  them  south  under  the  arches 
and  littering  the  streets  around  Brixton 
Station,  in  the  Old  Kent  Road,  on  Deptford 
Broadway  ;  up  north  in  Phcenix  Street,  in 
Chapel  Street,  Islington,  in  Queen's  Crescent, 

Kentish  Town ;  away  west  straggling  for  a 
mile  or  more  along  Harrow  Road,  or  in 
King  Street,  Hammersmith ;  eastward  in 
Chrisp  Street  by  the  docks,  and  nowhere  in 
greater  variety,  more  breezily  good-humoured, 
or  attended  by  a  more  cosmopolitan  crowd 
than  in  Whitechapel  Road. 

On  the  way  thither,  through  Aldgate,  we 
pass  Butchers'  Row  and  the  uncommonly 
miscellaneous  line  of  stalls  facing  it,  where 
business  has  been  steadily  increasing  ever 
since  noon.  Some  of  the  butchers  have  put 
up  intimations  that  they  make  a  speciality 
of  "  kosher "  meat,  and  other  signs  are  not 
wanting  that  we  are  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  Ghetto :  round  the  side-streets  are 
Jewish  hotels  and  restaurants;  in  the  High 
Street  there  are  bakers,  printers,  all  manner 
of  traders  who  have  announcements  in 
Hebrew  characters  painted  on  their  windows  ; 
a  Hebrew  theatrical  poster  appeals  to  us 
from  a  hoarding ;  dusky  foreign  Jews  pass 
in  the  crowd  chattering  in  a  barbarous 

As  we  push  farther  east  the  crowd  becomes 
denser  and  livelier :  an  incongruouslj'  blended 
multitude  in  which  abject  squalor  elbows 
coquettish  elegance,  and  sickly  misery  and 
robust  good-humour,  and  frank  poverty  and 
poverty  decently  disguised,  and  lean  knavery 
and  leaner  honesty,  drunkenness  and  sobriety, 
care  and  frivolity,  shabby  home-bred  loafers 
and  picturesque,  quaintly-garbed  loafers  from 
over  sea,  all  hustle  or  loiter  side  by  side,  in 
one  vast,  motley,  ever-moving  panorama 




By  this  we  are  past  the  Pavilion  Theatre 
and  on  the  broad  pavement  that  sweeps 
down  to  IMile  End  Gate.  Up  between  flags 
of  the  pavement  sprout  stunted  trees  that 
drip  dirty  tears  in  the  foggy  \\'eeks  of  winter 
and  with  the  coming  of  spring  break  into 
a  pleasant  laughter  of  dusty  green  leaves. 
They  are  girdled  with  iron  railings,  and 
betwixt  and  before  and  behind  them  coster- 
mongers'  stands  and  barrows  are  scattered 
in  great  plenty. 

There  are  fruit  and  vegetable  stalls,  there 
.are  fish  stalls,  haberdashers',  stationers',  tailors', 
toy,  jewellery,  butchers',  cutlery,  boot,  hat  and 
cap,  and  unmistakably  second-hand  ironmon- 
gery stalls,  all  along  to  Mile  End  Gate  ;  and, 
to  add  to  the  crush  and  the  tumult,  enter- 
prising shopkeepers  have  rushed  selections 
of  their  goods  out  of  doors  and  ranged  them 
among  the  stalls  and  set  assistants  bawling 
in  wildernesses  of  furniture  and  crockery,  or 
chaunting  incessantly  amidst  clustered  pillars 
of  linoleum  and  carpet  like  lay  priests  in 
ruined  temples. 

The  stalls  and  these  overflowings  of  the 
shops  are  intersected  by  stands  where  weary 
marketers  may  solace  themselves  with  light 
refreshments  in  the  way  of  whelks  liberally 
seasoned  with  vinegar  and  pepper,  cheap  but 
indigestible  pastry,  toffee,  or  fried  soles  ;  and 
there  are  ice-cream  barrows  that  dispense 
ices  and  ginger-beer  in  summer,  and  in  winter 
supply  baked  potatoes  and  hot  drinks. 

Intersecting  other  stalls  are  a  cripple  in 
a  wheeled-chair  manipulating  a  concertina ; 
a  man  with  a  tray  suspended  round  his  neck 
selling  "  electric  "  pens  ;  an  enormous  brass 
weighing  machine  that  soars  up  glittering 
and  catching  light  from  all  the  surrounding 
naphtha  lamps  till  it  seems  itself  a  thing  of 
fire  ;  a  galvanic  battery  and  a  "  lung-tester," 
both  popular  with  boys,  who  take  shocks 
from  the  one  and  blow  into  the  long  tube 
of  the  other  with  a  joy  in  the  results  that 
is  worth  at  least  twice  what  they  pay  for  it ; 
and,  with  a  naphtha  lamp  all  to  himself,  a 
.sombre,  wooden-legged  man  presides  over 
a  seedy  collection  of  umbrellas  stuck  in  a 
ricketty  home-made  stand  and  holds  a 
specimen  umbrella  open  over  his  own  head 
as  if  he  lived  at  the  of  times  in  an 
invisible  shower. 

And  buyers  are  stopping   to  haggle  with 

the  sellers  ;  loafers  and  lurchers  go  by  con- 
tinuously ;  passing  by  also  are  rough  artisans 
in  their  working  clothes  out  shopping  with 
their  wives,  and  dainty  fascinating  young 
Jewesses  dressed  in  ornate  imitation  of  the 
latest  West-End  fashions  and  escorted  by 
dapper  young  Jews  in  tall  hats,  resplendent 
linen,  and  suits  reminiscent  of  Piccadilly. 

Stand   aside  and   see  them  passing  ;    and 
here,  passing  with   them,  a   couple  of  jovial 
sailors,    arm-in-arm,    flourishing    their    pipes 
and  singing  lustily  ;  a  wan  woman  in  rusty 
widow's  weeds  leading  a  child   in   one  hand 
and    carrying   her   frugal    marketings  in   the 
other  ;  a  young  man  wheeling  a  perambulator 
with  a   baby  and  some  beef  and  a  cabbage 
in    it,    while   his    wife,    a    keen,    brisk    little 
woman,   chaffers  at   the  fish  stall    for  some- 
thing toothsome  to  take  home    for   supper  ; 
dowdy   women,    ]ew   and    Gentile,    in    faded 
bonnets,   or    bright-coloured    shawls,  or  with 
no     other     head-covering     than    their    own 
plenteous  hair  ;  three  dandy  soldiers  making 
a  splash  of  red  where  the  throng  is  drabbest ; 
a  sleek  Oriental,  astray  from  the   docks,   in 
his  white   linen   costume   and    white  turbair 
or  crimson  fez  ;  a  lank,  long-bearded  Hebrew 
in  an  ample  frock  coat  and  ancient  tall  hat, 
moving  in  profound  meditation,  with  a  certain 
air   of  aloofness    separating    him    from    the 
surging,   restless  mob,  as   if  the  sanctities  of 
the  Synagogue  and  his  newly-ended  Sabbath 
still  wrapped    him  about   in   an  atmosphere 
of  unworldly  calm. 

A  few  paces  farther  on,  and  here  is  a 
weedy  youth  swathed  in  a  white  apron 
shrilly  inviting  attention  to  a  pyramid  of 
pigs'-trotters  on  a  board  on  trestles  against 
the  front  of  a  public-house,  in  the  saloon 
doorway  of  which  a  pair  of  musicians  are 
manufacturing  music  with  a  diminutive  har- 
monium and  a  tin-whistle,  while  outside  the 
smaller  public-house  near  by  gossiping  men 
and  women  with  no  taste  for  either  music 
or  pig's-trotters  lounge  drinking  in  the  open 

Across  in  the  New  Cut,  and  Lower  Marsh, 
Lambeth,  there  is  the  same  crush  and  uproar, 
the  same  smoky  flare  of  innumerable  naphtha 
lamps,  the  same  bewildering  miscellany  of 
stalls,  but  the  customers  and  idlers  are,  on 
the  whole,  more  poverty-stricken,  more 
depressed,  more   common-place.      There  are 




flower-stalls  and  second-hand  book  stalls 
here,  as  there  are  in  Farringdon  Street  and 
Shoreditch  High  Street  ;  there  is  a  sedate 
optician's  stall  with  wilted  old  ladies  and 
gentlemen  pottering  about  it  at  intervals 
testing  their  sights  at  different-sized  letters 
printed  on  a  card  and  sparing  a  trifle  from 
their  week's  addlings  to  treat  themselves  to 
new  pairs  of  spectacles  ;  there  is  a  misan- 
diropic-looking  man  sitting  on  a  stool  in 
the  gutter  with  piles  of  muffins  on  a  small 
table     beside     him ;      and     there     are     the 

the  road  is  blocked  by  an  eager  concourse 
of  girls  and  young  and  elderly  women,  and 
peering  over  their  agitated  shoulders  we 
focus  with  difficulty  a  low,  improvised 
counter  buried  under  stacks  of  ladies'  jackets, 
blouses,  dresses,  shawls,  while  four  feminine 
hucksters,  one  at  each  corner  of  the  counter, 
hold  up  articles  of  such  wearing  apparel  for 
inspection  and  cackle  persuasively  in  chorus. 
They  do  the  thing  better  in  such  a  place  as 
Hoxton  Street,  for  there  the  roadway  is  left 
to  every  other  description  of  stall,  and  the 


usual  hawkers  wandering  up  and  down  with 
toasting  forks,  boot-laces,  braces,  song-sheets, 
and  meat-jacks  with  wooden  legs  of  mutton 
turning  on  them  to  illustrate  their  uses. 

In  nearly  every  market  street  to-night 
there  are  cheap-jacks  selling  crockery,  and 
quacks  vending  corn-cures  and  ointment, 
and  in  .some,  notably  in  Stratford  High 
Street  and  Deptford  Broadway,  there  is 
occasionally  a  male  quack,  or  one  of  the 
gentler  sex,  who,  to  create  a  sensation  and 
gather  an  audience,  will  plant  a  chair  in  the 
public  eye  and  extract  the  teeth  of  penurious 
sufferers  gratis. 

Half  way   through    one   Saturday  market 

trade  in  women's  clothing  is  carried  on  in 
skeleton  shops,  the  fronts  of  which  have 
been  knocked  out  so  that  passing  ladies  may 
stray  in  without  hindrance  and  wallow  in 
second-hand  garments  that  hang  thickly 
round  the  walls  and  are  strewn  and  heaped 
prodigally  about  the   floors. 

In  other  streets  we  have  side-glimpses  of 
brilliantly-lighted  interiors  opulently  fes- 
tooned and  garlanded  and  hung  with  cheap 
boots  and  shoes,  and,  thus  environed,  men 
and  women,  affluent  with  Saturday's  wages, 
examining  and  selecting  from  the  stock,  or 
a  small  child  on  a  high  chair  having  a  pair 
of  shoes  tried  on  under  the  critical  gaze  of 




its  father  and  mother  and  the  shopman  ;  or, 
especially  in  such  localities  as  Leather  Lane 
and  Whitecross  Street,  where  boot-stalls 
abound,  a  similar  scene  is  frequently  enact- 
ing in  the  open  air,  with  the  diminutive 
customer  perched,  for  "  fitting "  purposes, 
close  to   the  stall. 

In  all  the  tumultuous  market  streets,  and 
in  broad,  centre  thoroughfares  where  there 
are  few  or  no  costermongers,  big  drapers  have 
a  passion  for  Saturday  clearance  sales  that 
no  woman  who  loves  a  bargain  is  stoical 
enough  to  ignore ;  and  provision  shops  and 
mammoth  general  stores,  in  a  cheery  glamour 
of  gas  or  electric  light,  are  simmering  and 
humming  like  exaggerated  hives.  Smart 
servant-maids  in  some  districts,  and  in  all 
practical  housewives,  domesticated  husbands, 
children,  singly  or  in  pairs,  and  furnished  with 
baskets  and  pencilled  lists  of  their  require- 
ments, flow  in  and  out  of  these  emporiums 
in  apparently  endless  streams. 

While  the  Saturday  saturnalia  is  thus  at 
its  fiercest  and  gayest  and  noisiest  throughout 
the  main  roads  and  market  streets,  in  grimy, 
quiet  byways  of  Whitechapel  there  are  snug 
Hebrew  coffee  rooms  and  restaurants,  re- 
awakened after  a  Sabbath  snooze,  wherein 
Jews  of  divers  nationalities  are  gossiping 
over  coffee  and  wine  and  cigarettes,  or 
beguiling  the  hours  with  dominoes  and 
card-playing.  In  other  dim,  sinister  byways 
there  is,  here  and  there,  in  an  obscure  room 
behind  some  retiring  hostelry,  a  boxing 
match  going  forward  for  the  delectation  of 
an  audience  of  flashy,  rowdy  sportsmen  and 

their  down-at-heel  hangers-on  ;  like- 
wise, about  Whitechapel  and  Ber- 
mondsey,  Southwark  and  Soho,  in 
shyer,  furtive  dens  that  are  over- 
shadowed always  by  fear  of  a  police 
raid,  there  are  feverish,  secret  gamesters 
gathered  round  the  green  tables.  In 
the  neighbourhood  of  Soho  —  much 
favoured  by  exiles  from  all  countries 
— they  are  more  numerous  and  of 
superior  quality,  and  in  some  exclusive, 
elegant,  equally  secret  clubs  you  may 
gamble  with  bejewelled  gentry  whose 
losses  on  the  turn  of  the  wheel  or 
the  cards  arc  far  from  being  limited 
by  the  size  of  a  week's  salary. 

Meanwhile,  theatres  are  full,  and 
music-halls  ;  and  Saturday  dances,  sing- 
songs, and  smoking  concerts  in  assembly 
rooms  and  over  public  -  houses  are  liberally 
encouraged.  When  people  begin  to  come 
out  from  these  entertainments,  the  crowd 
that  is  still  abroad  marketing  is  of  a  poorer, 
hungrier  stamp  than  that  which  enlivened 
the  streets  an  hour  or  two  ago.  Stalls  are 
beginning  to  disappear,  and  those  that  remain 
are  mostly  refreshment  stalls,  or  fruit  and 
meat  stalls  that  are  trying  to  sell  off  their 
surplus  stock  by  auction. 

Fruit  stalls  in  Whitechapel  Road  have 
a  special  weakness  for  finishing  up  in  this 
way — a  way  which  is  common  to  the  meat 
shops   and   stalls   in   all   the  market   streets 




everywhere.  The  large  cheap  butchers'  shops 
in  Bermondsey  and  elsewhere  make  a  practice 
of  "selling  off"  by  auction  all  the  evening, 
but  elsewhere  it  is  the  custom  to  adopt  this 
course  only  after  ten  o'clock. 

Then,  after  ten  o'clock,  you  may  see 
feminine  butchers  hammering  on  their  stalls 
with  the  blunt  ends  of  their  choppers,  and 
shouting  and  cheapening  their  primest  beef 
and  mutton  as  frantically  and  as  successfully 
as  any  butcher  of  the  sterner  sex  who, 
goaded  to  frenzy  by  the  approach  of  mid- 
night, is  pedestalled  on  his  stall,  or  on  the 
block  in  his  doorway  or  the  sloping  flap 
outside  his  window,  and  is  lifting  meat 
boastfully  in  both  hands,  offering  it  at 
absurdly  high  prices,  and  yet  selling  it  for 
ever  so  little  a  pound  to  whomsoever  will 

Rain  or  snow  will  thin  the  streets  by 
keeping  folk  at  home  or  driving  them  to 
the  nearest  shops,  or  to  such  roofed  paradises 
for  the  small  trader  as  the  Portman  Market 

off  Edgware  Road.  But  to-night  has  been 
fine,  and  everything  at  its  best. 

And  now  'buses  and  trams  begin  to  fill 
with  laughing,  chattering  myriads  returning 
from  the  theatres,  and  with  shop  assistants  just 
emancipated.  Laundry  vans  are  coming 
back  from  delivering  the  last  of  their  wash- 
ing ;  in  thousands  of  lowly,  decent  house- 
holds busy  mothers  are  ironing  the  last  of 
to-morrow's  linen  on  a  corner  of  the  supper 
table,  or  the  whole  family  are  seated  to  a 
rare  but  inexpensive  feast  at  the  latter  end 
of  a  hard  week. 

Twelve  strikes,  and  the  public-houses  close, 
not  without  brawling  and  a  drunken  fight 
or  two  ;  but  the  last  stragglers  will  soon  be 
making  for  home ;  the  last  stall  will  soon 
have  packed  up  and  gone  away  ;  the  latest 
shop  will  be  putting  up  its  shutters,  and  all 
the  flare  and  fever  and  flurry  and  wrangling 
and  business  and  merriment  of  Saturday 
night  will  be  quieting  down  at  last  under 
the  touch  of  Sunday  morning. 



Peinted  by  Casseli,  and  Company.  Limited,  La  Belle  ^auvage,  Ludgate  Hill,  London,  E.G. 




SIMS,  G.R. 
Living  London. 

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